THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 
Ada  Nisbet 

ENGLISH  READING  ROOM 


JUL171986 


PELHAM. 


PELHAM 


OR 


ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN 


BY 

EDWARD    BULWER  \LYTTON 


(LORD  LYTTON) 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CASSELL   PUBLISHING  CO. 
31  EAST  I;TH  ST.  (UNION  SQUARE) 


THE  MERSHON  COMPANY  PRESS, 
RAHWAY,  N.  J. 


. 
. 


PREFACE   TO   THE    EDITION    OF  1828.* 


I  BELIEVE  if  we  were  to  question  every  author  upon  the  subject  of  his  lit- 
erary grievances,  we  should  find  that  the  most  frequent  of  all  complaints  was 
less  that  of  being  unappreciated,  than  that  of  being  misunderstood.  All  of 
us  write  perhaps  with  some  secret  object,  for  which  the  world  cares  not  a 
straw  :  and  while  each  reader  fixes  his  peculiar  moral  upon  a  book,  no  one, 
By  any  chance,  hits  upon  that  which  the  author  had  in  his  own  heart  designed 
to  inculcate.  Hence  the  edition  of  "  Pelham  "  acquires  that  appendage  in 
the  shape  of  an  explanatory  preface  which  the  unprescient  benevolence  of  the 
author  did  not  inflict  on  his  readers  when  he  first  confided  his  work  to  their 
candor  and  discretion.  Even  so,  some  Candidate  for  Parliamentary  Honors 
first  braves  the  hustings — relying  only  on  the  general  congeniality  of  senti- 
ment between  himself  and  the  Electors — but  alas  !  once  chosen,  the  liberal 
confidence  which  took  him  upon  trust  is  no  more,  and  when  he  reappears  to 
commend  himself  to  the  popular  suffrage,  he  is  required  to  go  into  the  ill-bred 
egotisms  of  detail — and  explain  all  that  he  has  done  and  all  that  he  has  failed 
to  do,  to  the  satisfaction  of  an  enlightened  but  too  inquisitive  constituency. 

It  is  a  beautiful  part  in  the  economy  of  this  world  that  nothing  is  without 
its  use  ;  every  weed  in  the  great  thoroughfares  of  life  has~a  honeyTwhicE 
Observation  can  easily  extract  ;  and  we  may  glean  no  unimportant  wisdom 
from  Folly  itself,  if  we  distinguish  while  we  survey,  and  satirize  while  we 
share  it.  It  is  in  this  belief  that  these  volumes  have  their  origin.  I  have 
nfoTbeen  willing  that  even  the  commonplaces  of  society  should  afford  neither 
a  record  nor  a  moral  ;  and  it  is  therefore  from  the  commonplaces  of  society 
that  the  materials  of  this  novel  have  been  wrought.  By  treating  trifles  natu- 
rally, they  may  be  rendered  amusing,  and  that  which  adherence  to  Nature 
renders  amusing,  the  same  cause  also  may  render  instructive  :  for  Nature  is 
the  source  of  all  morals,  and  the  enchanted  well,  from  which  not  a  single  drop 
can  be  taken  that  has  not  the  power  of  curing  some  of  our  diseases. 

I  have  drawn  for  the  hero  of  my  Work  such  a  person  as  seemed  to  me  best 
fitted  to  retail  the  opinions  and  customs  of  the  class  and  age  to  which  he  be- 
longs ;  a  personal  combination  of  antitheses — a  fop  and  a  philosopher,  a 
voluptuary  and  a  moralist— a  trifler  in  appearance,  but  rather  one  to  whom 
trifles  are  instructive,  than  one  to  whom  trifles  are  natural — an  Aristippus  on 
a  limited  scile,  accustomed  to  draw  sage  conclusions  from   the  follies  he 
adopts,  and  while  professing  himself  a  votary  of  Pleasure,  desirous  in  reality 
to  become  a  disciple  of  Wisdom.     Such  a  character  I  have  found  it  more 
difficult  to  portray  than  to  conceive.     I  have  found  it  more  difficult  still,  be- 
cause I  have  with  it  nothing  in  common, f  except  the  taste  for  observation, 

*  Viz.,  the  Second  Edition. 

I 1  regret  extremely  that  by  this  remark  I  should  be  necessitated  to  relinquish  the  flat- 
tering character  I  have  for  so  many  months  borne,  and  to  undeceive  not  a  few  of  my  most 
indulgent  critics  who  in  reviewinc  my  work  have  literally  considered  the  Author  and  the 
Hero  one  flesh.     "  We  have  only,    said  one  of  them,  "  to  complain  of  the  Author's  ego- 
tisms ;  he  is  perpetually  talking  of  himself !  "     Poor  gentleman  !  from  the  first  page  to  the 
last,  the  Author  never  utters  a  syllable — [.The  few  marginal  notes  in   which  the  Author 
himself  speaks,  were  not  added  till  the  present  Edition.] 


iv  PREFACE    TO    THE    EDITION    OF    1828. 

and  some  experience  in  the  scenes  among  which  it  has  been  cast ;  and  it  will 
readily  be  supposed  that  it  is  no  easy  matter  to  survey  occurrences  the  most 
familiar  through  a  vision,  as  it  were,  essentially  and  perpetually  different  from 
that  through  which  oneself  has  been  accustomed  to  view  them.  This  diffi- 
culty in  execution  will  perhaps  be  my  excuse  in  failure  ;  and  some  additional 
indulgence  may  be  reasonably  granted  to  an  author  who  has  rarely  found  in 
the  egotisms  of  his  hero  a  vent  for  his  own. 

With  the  generality  of  those  into  whose  hands  a  novel  upon  manners  is 
A  likely  to  fall,  the  lighter  and  less  obvious  the  method  in  which  reflection  is 
;'  conveyed,  the  greater  is  its  chance  to  be  received  without  distaste  and  remem- 
bered without  aversion.  This  will  be  an  excuse,  .perhaps ,  for  the  appearance 
of  frivolities  not  indulged  for  the  sake  of  the  frivolity  ;  under  that  which  has 
most  the  semblance  of  levity  I  have  often  been  the  most  diligent  in  my  en- 
deavors to  inculcate  the  substances  of  truth.  The  shallowest  stream,  whose 
bed  every  passenger  imagines  he  surveys,  may  deposit  some  golden  grains  on 
the  plain  through  which  it  flows  ;  and  we  may  weave  flowers  not  only  into  an 
idle  garland,  but,  like  the  thyrsus  of  the  ancients,  over  a  sacred  weapon. 

It  now  only  remains  for  me  to  add  my  hope  that  this  edition  will  present 
the  "Adventures  of  a  Gentleman  "  in  a  less  imperfect  shape  than  the  last, 
and  in  the  words  of  the  erudite  and  memorable  Joshua  Barnes,  *  "  So  to  be- 
gin my  intended  discourse,  if  not  altogether  true,  yet  not  wholly  vain,  for 
perhaps  deficient  in  what  may  exhilarate  a  witty  fancy,  or  inform  a  bad 
moralist."  THE  AUTHOR. 

October,  1828. 

*  In  the  Preface  to  his  Gerania. 


PREFACE   TO   THE    EDITION  OF   1840.* 


THE  holiday  time  of  life,  in  which  this  novel  was  written,  while  account- 
ing, perhaps  in  a  certain  gayety  of  tone,  for  the  popularity  it  has  received, 
may  perhaps  also  excuse,  in  some  measure,  its  more  evident  deficiencies  and 
faults.  Although  I  tiust  the  time  has  passed  when  it  might  seem  necessary 
to  protest  against  those  critical  assumptions  which  so  long  confounded  the 
author  with  the  hero  ;  although  I  equally  trust  that,  even  were  such  assump- 
tions true,  it  would  be  scarcely  necessary  to  dispute  the  justice  of  visiting 
upon  later  and  more  sobered  life  the  supposed  foibles  and  levities  of  that 
thoughtless  age  of  eighteen  in  which  this  fiction  was  first  begun, — yet,  per- 
haps, some  short  sketch  of  the  origin  of  a  work,  however  idle,  the  success  of 
which  determined  the  literary  career  of  the  author,  may  not  be  considered 
altogether  presumptuous  or  irrelevant. 

While,  yet,  then  a  boy  in  years,  but  with  some  experience  of  the  world, 
which  I  entered  prematurely,  I  had  the  good  fortune  to  be  confined  to  my 
room  by  a  severe  illness,  towards  the  end  of  a  London  season.  All  my  friends 
were  out  of  town,  and  I  was  left  to  such  resources  as  solitude  can  suggest  to 
the  tedium  of  sickness.  I  amused  myself  by  writing  with  incredible  difficulty 
and  labor  (for  till  then  prose  was  a  country  almost  as  unknown  to  myself  as 
to  Monsieur  Jourdain)  some  half  a  dozen  tales  and  sketches,  Among  them 
was  a  story  called  "  Mortimer,  or  the  Memoirs  of  a  Gentleman."  Its  com- 
mencement was  almost  word  for  word  the  same  as  that  of  "Pelham";  but 
the  design  was  exactly  opposite  to  that  of  the  latter  and  later  work.  "Morti- 
mer" was  intended  to  show  the  manner  in  which  the  world  deteriorates  its 
votary,  and  "_Efiliiam,"  on  the  contrary,  conveys  the  newer,  and,  I  believe, 
sounder  moral,  of  showing  how  a  man  of  sense  can  subject  the  usages  of  the 
world  to  himself  instead  of  being  conquered  by  them,  and  gradually  grow 
wise  by  the  very  foibles  of  his  youth. 

This  tale,  with  the  sketches  written  at  the  same  period,  was  sent  anony- 
mously to  a  celebrated  publisher,  who  considered  the  volume  of  too  slight  a 
nature  for  separate  publication,  and  recommended  me  to  select  the  best  of 
the  papers  for  a  magazine.  I  was  not  at  that  time  much  inclined  to  a  peri- 
odical mode  of  publishing,  and  thought  no  more  of  what,  if  nugcz*  to  the 
reader,  had  indeed  been  difficiles  to  the  author.  $oon  afterwaids  I  went 
abroad.  On  my  return  I  sent  a  collection  of  letters  to  Mr.  Col  burn  for  pub- 
lication, which,  for  various  reasons,  I  afterwards  worked  up  into  a  fiction, 
and  which  (greatly  altered  from  their  original  form)  are  now  known  to  the 
public  under  the  name  of  "  Falkland." 

While  correcting  the  sheets  of  that  tale  for  the  press,  I  was  made  aware  of 
many  of  its  faults.  But  it  was  not  till  it  had  been  fairly  before  the  public 
that  I  was  sensible  of  its  greatest  ;  namely,  asombre  coloring. of  life,  and  the 
indulgence  of  a  vein  of  sentiment  which,  though  common  enough  to  all  very 

*  Viz.,  in  the  first  collected  edition  of  the  Author's  prose  works. 
*  Nugai,  trifles  ;  difficiles,  difficult. 


vi  PREFACE    TO    THE   EDITION    OF    1840. 

young  minds  in  their  first  bitter  experience  of  the  disappointments  of  the 
world,  had  certainly  ceased  to  be  new  in  its  expression,  and  had  never  been 
true  in  its  philosophy. 

The  effect  which  the  composition  of  that  work  produced  upon  my  mind 
was  exactly  similar  to  that  which  (if  I  may  reverently  quote  so  illustrious  an 
example)  Goethe  informs  us  the  writing  of  "Werter"  produced  upon  his 
own.  I  had  rid  my  bosom  of  its  "  perilous  stuff  "  ;  I  had  confessed  my  sins, 
and  was  absolved  ;  I  could  return  to  real  life  and  its  wholesome  objects. 
Encouraged  by  the  reception  which  "  Falkland  "  met  with,  flattering  though 
not  brilliant,  I  resolved  to  undertake  a  new  and  more  important  fiction.  I 
had  long  been  impressed  with  the  truth  of  an  observation  of  Madame  de 
Stael,  that  a  character  at  once  gay  and  sentimental  is  always  successful  on 
the  stage.  I  resolved  to  attempt  a  similar  character  for  a  novel,  making 
the  sentiment,  however,  infinitely  less  prominent  than  the  gayety.  My 
boyish  attempt  of  the  "  Memoirs  of  a  Gentleman"  occurred  to  me,  and  I 
resolved  upon  this  foundation  to  build  my  fiction.  After  a  little  consider- 
ation I  determined,  however,  to  enlarge  and  ennoble  the  original  character  : 
the  character  itself,  of  the  clever  man  of  the  world  corrupted  by  the  world, 
was  not  new  ;  it  had  already  been  represented  by  Mackenzie,  by  Moore  in 
"Zeluco,"  and  in  some  measure  by  the  master-genius  of  Richardson  itself, 
in  the  incomparable  portraiture  of  Lovelace.  The  moral  to  be  derived  from 
such  a  creation  seemed  to  me  also  equivocal  and  dubious.  It  is  a  moral  of 
a  gloomy  and  hopeless  school,  *"We  live  in  the  world  ;  the  great  majority  of 
us,  in  a  state  of  civilization,  must,  more  or  less,  be  men  of  the  world.  It 
struck  me  that  it  would  be  a  new,  an  useful,  and  perhaps  a  happy,  moral,  to 
show  in  what  manner  we  might  redeem  and  brighten  the  commonplaces  of 
life ;  to  prove  (what  is  really  the  fact)  that  the  lessons  of  society  do  not  nee- 
,  essaiily  corrupt,  and  that  we  may  be  both  men  of  the  world,  and  even,  to  a 
certain  degree,  men  of  pleasure,  and  yet  be  something  wiser — nobler — better. 
With  this  idea  I  formed  in  my  mind  the  character  of  Pelham  ;  revolving  its 
qualities  long  and  seriously  before  I  attempted  to  describe  them  on  paper. 
For  the  formation  of  my  story  I  studied  with  no  slight  attention  the  great 
works  of  my  predecessors,  and  attempted  to  derive  "from  that  study  certain 
rules  and  canons  to  serve  me  as  a  guide  ;  and  if  some  of  my  younger  contem- 
poraries whom  I  could  name  would  only  condescend  to  take  the  same  pre- 
liminary pains  that  I  did,  I  am  sure  that  the  result  would  be  much  more 
brilliant.  It  often  happens  to  me  to  be  consulted  by  persons  about  to  at- 
t'empt  fiction,  and  1  invariably  find  that  they  imagine  they  have  only  to  sit 
down  and  write.  They  forget  that  art  does  not  come  by  inspiration,  and 
that  the  novelist,  dealing  constantly  with  contrast  and  effect,  must,  in  the 
widest  and  deepest  sense  of  the  word,  study  to  be  an  artist.  They  paint 
pictures  for  Posterity  without  having  learned  to  draw. 

Few  critics  have,  hitherto,  sufficiently  considered,  and  none,  perhaps,  have 
accurately  defined,  the  peculiar  characteristics  of  prose  fiction  in  its  distinct 
schools  and  multiform  varieties  :  of  the  two  principal  species,  the  Narrative 
and  Dramatic,  I  chose  for  "  Pelham  "  my  models  in  the  former  ;  and  when 
it  was  objected,  at  the  first  appearance  of  that  work,  that  the^  plot  was  not 
carried  on  through  every  incident  and  every  scene,  the  critics  evidently  con- 
founded the  two  classes  of  fiction  I  have  referred  to,  and  asked  from  a  work 
in  one  what  ought  only  to  be  the  attributes  of  a  work  in  the  other  :  the  daz- 
zling celebrity  of  Scott,  who  deals  almost  solely  with  the  dramatic  species  of 
fiction,  made  them  forgetful  of  the  examples,  equally  illustrious,  in  the  nar- 
rative" form  of  romance,  to  be  found  in  Smollett,  in  Fielding,  and  Le  Sage. 
Perhaps,  indeed,  there  is  in  "  Pelham  "  more  of  plot  and  of  continued  in- 


PREFACE    TO   THE    EDITION    OF    1840.  vii 

terest,  and  less  of  those  incidents  that  do  not  either  bring  out  the  character 
of  the  hero,  or  conduce  to  the  catastrophe,  than  the  narrative  order  may  be 
said  to  require,  or  than  is  warranted  by  the  great  examples  I  have  ventured 
to  name. 

After  due  preparation,  I  commenced  and  finished  the  first  volume  of 
"  Pelham."  Various  circumstances  then  suspended  my  labors,  till  several 
months  afterwards  I  found  myself  quietly  buried  in  the  country,  and  with  so 
much  leisure  on  my  hands  that  I  was  driven,  almost  in  self-defence  from 
ennui,  to  continue  and  conclude  my  attempt. 

It  may  serve  perhaps  to  stimulate  the  courage  and  sustain  the  hopes  of 
others  to  remark  that  "the  Reader  "  to  whom  the  MS.  was  submitted  by  the 
publisher,  pronounced  the  most  unfavorable  and  damning  opinion  upon  its 
chances  of  success, — an  opinion  fortunately  reversed  by  Mr,  Oilier,  the  able 
and  ingenious  author  of  "  Inesilla,"  to  whom  it  was  then  referred.  The  book 
was  published,  and  I  may  add,  that  for  about  two  months  it  appeared  in  a 
fair  way  of  perishing  prematurely  in  its  cradle.  With  the  exception  of  two 
most  flattering  and  generously  indulgent  notices  in  thd  Literary  Gazette  and 
the  Examiner  and  a  very  encouraging  and  friendly  criticism  in  the  Atlas,  it 
was  received  by  the  critics  with  indifference  or  abuse.  They  mistook  its  pur- 
port, and  translated  its  satire  literally.  But  about  the  third  month  it  rose 
rapidly  into  the  favor  it  has  since  continued  to  maintain.  Whether  it  an- 
swered all  the  objects  it  attempted  I  cannot  pretend  to  say  ;  one  at  least  I 
imagine  that  it  did  answer  :  .1  think,  above  most  works,  it  contributed  to  put 
an  end  to  the  Satanic  mania, — to  turn  the  thoughts  and  ambition  of  youpg 
"gentlemen  without  neckcloths,  and  young  clerks  who  were  sallow,  from  play- 
ing the  Corsair,  and  boasting  that  they  were  villains.  If,  mistaking  the  irony 
of  Pelham,  they  went  to  the  extreme  of  emulating  the  foibles  which  that  hero 
attributes  to  himself,  those  were  foibles  at  least  more  harmless,  and  even  more 
manly  and  noble,  than  the  conceit  of  a  general  detestation  of  mankind,  or  the 
vanity  of  storming  our  pity  by  lamentations  over  imaginary  sorrows,  and 
sombre  hints  at  the  fatal  burthen  of  inexpiable  crimes.* 

Such  was  the  history  of  a  publication  which,  if  not  actually  my  first,  was 
the  one  whose  fate  was  always  intended  to  decide  me  whether  to  conclude 
or  continue  my  attempts  as  an  author. 

I  can  repeat,  unaffectedly,  that  I  have  indulged  this  egotism,  not  only  as 
a  gratification  to  that  common  curiosity  which  is  felt  by  all  relative  to  the 
early  works  of  an  author,  who,  whatever  be  his  faults  and  demerits,  has  once 
obtained  the  popular  ear  ;  but  also  as  affording,  perhaps,  the  following  les- 
sons to  younger  writers  of  less  experience,  but  of  more  genius,  than  myself. 
First,  in  attempting  fiction,  it  may  serve  to  show  the  use  of  a  critical  study 
of  its  rules,  for  to  that  study  I  owe  every  success  in  literature  I  have  ob- 
tained ;  and  in  the  mere  art  of  composition,  if  I  have  now  attained  to  even 
too  rapid  a  facility,  I  must  own  that  that  facility  has  been  purchased  by  a 
most  laborious  slowness  in  the  first  commencement,  and  a  resolute  refusal  to 
write  a  second  sentence  until  I  had  expressed  my  meaning  in  the  best  man- 
ner I  could  in  the  first.  And,  secondly,  it  may  prove  the  very  little  value  of 
those  "  cheers,"  of  the  want  of  which  Sir  Egerton  Brydges  f  so  feelingly 
complains,  and  which  he  considers  so  necessary  towards  the  obtaining  for  an 
author,  no  matter  what  his  talents,  his  proper  share  of  popularity.  I  knew 
not  a  single  critic,  and  scarcely  a  single  author,  when  I  began  to  write.  I 

*  Sir  Reginald  Glanville  was  drawn  purposely  of  the  would-be  Byron  School  as 
Pelham.  For  one  who  would  think  of  imitating  the  first,  ten  thousand  would  be 
attracted  to  the  last. 

t  In  the  melancholy  and  painful  pages  of  his  autobiography. 


a  foil  to 
unaware* 


viii  PREFACE   TO    THE   EDITION   OF    1840. 

have  never  received  to  this  day  a  single  word  of  encouragement  from  any  of 
those  writers  who  were  considered  at  one  time  the  dispensers  of  reputation. 
Long  after  my  name  was  not  quite  unknown  in  every  other  country  where 
English  literature  is  received,  the  great  quarterly  journals  of  my  own  dis- 
dained to  recognize  my  existence.  Let  no  man  cry  out  then  "  for  cheers," 
or  for  literary  patronage,  and  let  those  aspirants,  who  are  often  now  pleased 
to  write  to  me,  lamenting  their  want  of  interest  and  their  non-acquaintance 
with  critics,  learn  from  the  author  (insignificant  though  he  be)  who  addresses 
them  in  sympathy  and  fellowship,  that  a  man's  labors  are  his  best  patrons  ; 
that  the  public  is  the  only  critic  that  has  no  interest  and  no  motive  in  under- 
rating him  ;  that  the  world  of  an  author  is  a  mighty  circle,  of  which  enmity 
and  envy  can  penetrate  but  a  petty  segment,  and  that  the  pride  of  carving 
with  our  own  hands  our  own  name  is  worth  all  the  "  cheers  "  in  the  world. 
Long  live  Sidney's  gallant  and  lofty  motto,  "  Aut  viam  invettiam  out 
faciam  !"  * 

*  I  will  either  find  a  way  or  make  it. 


ADVERTISEMENT  TO  EDITION  OF  1848. 


No  ! — you  cannot  guess,  my  dear  reader,  how  long  my  pen  has  rested  over 
the  virgin  surface  of  this  paper,  before  even  that  "  No,"  which  now  stands 
out  so  bluffly  and  manfully,  took  heart  and  slept  forth.  If,  peradventure, 
thou  shouldst,  O  reader,  be  that  rarity  in  these  days — a  reader  who  has 
never  been  an  author — thou  canst  form  no  conception  of  the  strange  aspect 
which  the  first  page  of  a  premeditated  composition  will  often  present  to  the 
curious  investigator  into  the  initials  of  things.  There  is  a  sad  mania  now- 
adays for  collecting  autographs — would  that  some  such  collector  would 
devote  his  researches  to  the  first  pages  of  auctorial  manuscripis  !  He  would 
then  form  some  idea  of  the  felicitous  significance  of  that  idiomatic  phrase, 
"to  cudgel  the  brains!"  Out  of  what  grotesque  zig-zags,  and  fantastic 
arabesques  ;  out  of  what  irrelevant,  dreamy  illustrations  from  the  sister 
art, — houses,  and  trees,  and  profile  sketches  of  men,  nightmares,  and 
chimeras  ;  out  of  what  massacres  of  whole  lines,  prematurely  and  timidly 
ventured  forth  as  forlorn  hopes, — would  he  see  the  first  intelligible  words 
creep  into  actual  life— shy  streaks  of  light,  emerging  from  the  chaos  !  For 
that  rash  promise  of  mine  that  each  work  in  this  edition  of  works  so  numer- 
ous, shall  have  its  own  new  and  special  Preface,  seems  to  me  hard,  in  this 
instance,  to  fulfil.  Another  Preface  !  What  for  ?  Two  Prefaces  to  "  Pel- 
ham  "  already  exist,  wherein  all  that  I  would  say  is  said  !  And  in  going  back 
through  that  long  and  crowded  interval  of  twenty  years  since  the  first  ap- 
pearance of  this  work,  what  shadows  rise  to  beckon  me  away  through  the 
glades  and  alleys  in  that  dim  labyrinth  of  the  Past !  Infant  Hopes,  scarce 
born  ere  fated,  poor  innocents,  to  die — gazing  upon  me  with  reproachful 
eyes,  as  if  I  myself  had  been  their  unfeeling  butcher  ;  audacious  Enterprises 
boldly  begun,  to  cease  in  abrupt  whim,  or  chilling  doubt — looking  now 
through  the  mists,  zoophital  or  amphibious,  like  those  borderers  on  the  ani- 
mal and  vegetable  life,  which  flash  on  us  with  the  seeming  flutter  of  a  wing, 
to  subside  away  into  rooted  stems  and  withering  leaves.  How  can  I  escape 
the  phantom  throng?  How  return  to  the  starting-post,  and  recall  the  ardent 
emotions  with  which  youth  sprang  forth  to  the  goal  ?  To  write  fitting  Pref- 
ace to  this  work,  which,  if  not  my  first,  was  the  first  which  won  an  audience 
and  secured  a  reader,  I  must  myself  become  a  phantom,  with  the  phantom 
crowd.  It  is  the  ghost  of  my  youth  that  I  must  call  up.  What  we  are 
alone  hath  flesh  and  blood — what  we  have  been,  like  what  we  shall  be,  is  an 
idea  ;  and  no  more  !  An  idea  how  dim  and  impalpable  !  This  our  sense 
of  identity;  this  "  I  "  of  ours,  which  is  the  single  thread  that  continues  from 
first  to  last — single  thread  that  binds  flowers  changed  every  day,  and  with- 
ered every  night — how  thin  and  meagre  is  it  of  itself  !  How  difficult  to  lay 
hold  of  !  When  we  say  "  I  remember,"  how  vague  a  sentiment  we  utter  ! 
How  different  it  is  to  say,  "  I  feel !"  And  when  in  this  effort  of  memory 
we  travel  back  all  the  shadowland  of  years — when  we  say  "  I  remember," 
what  is  it  we  retain  but  some  poor  solitary  fibre  in  the  airy  mesh  of  that  old. 


X  ADVERTISEMENT    TO   EDITION    OF    1848. 

gossamer,  which  floated  between  earth  and  heaven,  moist  with  the  dews  and 
sparkling  in  the  dawn  ?  Some  one  incident,  some  one  affection  we  recall, 
but  not  all  the  associations  that  surrounded  it,  all  the  companions  of  the 
brain  or  the  heart,  with  which  it  formed  one  of  the  harmonious  contempo- 
raneous ring.  Scarcely  even  have  we  traced  and  seized  one  fine  filament  in  the 
broken  web  ere  it  is  lost  again.  In  the  inextricable  confusion  of  old  ideas, 
many  that  seem  of  the  time  we  seek  to  grasp  again,  but  were  not  so,  seize 
nnd  distract  us.  From  the  clear  effort  we  sink  into  the  vague  revery  ;  the 
Present  hastens  to  recall  and  dash  us  onward,  and  few,  leaving  the  actual 
world  around  them  when  they  say  "  I  remember,"  do  not  wake  as  from  a 
dream,  with  a  baffled  sigh,  and  murmur  "  No,  I  forget."  And  therefore,  if 
a  new  Preface  to  a  work  written  twenty  years  ago,  should  contain  some  elu- 
cidation of  the  aims  and  objects  with  which  it  was  composed,  or  convey 
some  idea  of  the  writer's  mind  at  that  time,  my  pen  might  well  rest  long  over 
the  blank  page  ;  and  houses  and  trees,  and  profile  sketches  of  men,  night- 
mares and  chimeras,  and  whole  passages  scrawled  and  erased,  might  well 
illustrate  the  barren  travail  of  one  who  sits  down  to  say  "  I  remember  !  " 

What  changes  in  the  outer  world  since  this  book  was  written.  What 
changes  of  thrones  and  dynasties  !  Through  what  cycles  of  hope  and  fear 
has  a  generation  gone  !  And  in  that  inner  world  of  Thought  what  old  ideas 
have  returned  to  claim  the  royalty  of  new  ones  !  What  new  ones  (new  ones 
then)  have  receded  out  of  sight,  in  the  ebb  and  flow  of  the  human  mind, 
which,  whatever  the  cant  phrase  may  imply,  advances  in  no  direct  steadfast 
progress,  but  gains  here  to  lose  there — a  tide,  not  a  march.  So,  too,  in  that 
slight  surface  of  either  world,  "  the  manners,"  superficies  alike  of  the  action 
and  the  thought  of  an  age,  the  ploughshares  of  twenty  years  have  turned  up 
a  new  soil, 

The  popular  changes  in  the  Constitution  have  brought  the  several  classes 
more  intimately  into  connection  with  each  other  ;  most  of  the  old  affectations 
of  fashion  and  exclusiveness  are  out  of  date.  We  have  not  talked  of  equal- 
ity, like  our  neighbors,  the  French,  but,  insensibly  and  naturally,  the  tone 
of  manners  has  admitted  much  of  the  frankness  of  the  principle,  without  the 
unnecessary  rudeness  of  the  pretence.  I  am  not  old  enough  yet  to  be 
among  the  indiscriminate  praisers  of  the  past,  and  therefore  I  recognize 
cheerfully  an  extraordinary  improvement  in  the  intellectual  and  moral  fea- 
tures of  the  English  world,  since  I  first  entered  it  as  an  observer.  There  is 
a  far  greater  earnestness  of  purpose,  a  higher  culture,  more  generous  and 
genial  views,  amongst  the  young  men  of  the  rising  generation  than  were 
common  in  the  last.  The  old  divisions  of  party  politics  remain  ;  but  among 
all  divisions  there  is  greater  desire  of  identification  with  the  people.  Rank 
is  more  sensible  of  its  responsibilities,  Property  of  its  duties.  Amongst  the 
clergy  of  all  sects  the  improvement  in  zeal,  in  education,  in  active  care  for 
their  flocks  is  strikingly  noticeable  ;  the  middle  class  have  become  more  in- 
structed and  refined,  and  yet  (while  fused  with  the  highest  in  their  intellect- 
ual tendencies,  reading  the  same  books,  cultivating  the  same  accomplish- 
ments) they  have  extended  their  sympathies  more  largely  among  the  hum- 
blest. And.  in  our  towns  especially,  what  advances  have  been  made  amongst 
the  operative  population  !  1  do  not  here  refer  to  that  branch  of  cultivation 
which  comprises  the  questions  that  belong  to  political  inquiry,  but  to  the 
general  growth  of  more  refined  and  less  polemical  knowledge.  Cheap  books 
have  come  in  vogue  as  a  fashion  during  the  last  twenty  years — books  ad- 
dressed, not  as  cheap  books  were  once,  to  the  passions,  but  to  the  under- 
standing and  the  taste— books  not  written  down  to  the  supposed  level  of 
uninformed  and  humble  readers,  but  such  books  as  refine  the  gentleman  and 


ADVERTISEMENT   TO   EDITION    OF    1840*.  XI 

instruct  the  scholar.  The  arts  of  design  have  been  more  appreciated — the 
Beautiful  has  been  admitted  into  the  pursuits  of  labor  as  a  principle — Re- 
ligion has  been  regaining  the  ground  it  lost  in  the  latter  half  of  the  last  cen- 
tury. What  is  technically  called  education  (education  of  the  school  and  the 
schoolmaster),  has  made  less  progress  than  it  might.  But  that  inexpressible 
diffusion  of  oral  information  which  is  the  only  culture  the  old  Athenians 
knew,  and  which,  in  the  ready  transmission  of  ideas,  travels  like  light  from 
lip  to  lip,  has  been  insensibly  educating  the  adult  ge/ieration.  In  spite 
of  all  the  dangers  that  menace  the  advance  of  the  present  century,  I  am  con- 
vinced that  classes  amongst  us  are  far  more  united  than  they  were  in  the  lat- 
ter years  of  George  the  Fourth.  A  vast  mass  of  discontent  exists  amongst 
the  operatives,  it  is  true,  and  Chartism  is  but  one  of  its  symptoms  ;  yet  that 
that  discontent  is  more  obvious  than  formerly  is  a  proof  that  men's  eyes  and 
men's  ears  are  more  open  to  acknowledge  its  existence — to  examine  and 
listen  to  its  causes.  Thinking  persons  now  occupy  themselves  with  that 
great  reality — the  People  ;  and  questions  concerning  their  social  welfare, 
their  health,  their  education,  their  interests,  their  rights,  which  philosophers 
alone  entertained  twenty  years  ago,  are  now  on  the  lips  of  practical  men 
and  in  the  hearts  of  all.  It  is  this  greater  earnestness,  this  profounder 
gravity  of  purpose  and  of  view,  which  forms  the  most  cheering  characteristic 
of  the  present  time  ;  and  though  that  time  has  its  peculiar  faults  and  vices, 
this  is  not  the  place  to  enlarge  on  them.  I  have  done,  and  may  yet  do  so, 
elsewhere.  This  work  is  the  picture  of  manners  in  certain  classes  of  society 
twenty  years  ago,  and  in  that  respect  I  believe  it  to  be  true  and  faithful. 
Nor  the  less  so,  that  under  the  frivolities  of  the  hero  it  is  easy  to  recognize 
the  substance  of  those  more  serious  and  solid  qualities  which  Time  has 
educed  from^the  generation  and  the  class  he  represents.  Mr.  Pelham  study- 
ing Mill  OB  Government  and  the  Political  Economists,  was  thought  by 
some  an  incongruity  in  character  at  the  day  in  which  Mr.  Pelham  first  ap- 
peared ;  the  truth  of  that  conception  is  apparent  now,  at  least  to  the  observ- 
ant. The  fine  gentlemen  of  that  day  were  preparing  themselves  for  the 
after  things,  which  were  already  foreshadowed  ;  and  some  of  those,  then 
best  known  in  clubs  and  drawing-rooms,  have  been  since  foremost  and  bold- 
est, nor  least  instructed,  in  the  great  struggles  of  public  life. 

I  trust  that  this  work  may  now  be  read  without  prejudice  from  the  silly 
error  that  long  sought  to  identify  the  author  with  the  hero. 

Rarely  indeed,  if  ever,  can  we  detect  the  real  likeness  of  an  author  of  fic- 
tion in  any  single  one  of  his  creations.  He  may  live  in  each  of  them,  but 
only  for  the  time.  He  migrates  into  a  new  form  with  every  new  character  he 
creates.  He  may  have  in  himself  a  quality,  here  and  there,  in  common  with 
each,  but  others  so  widely  opposite,  as  to  destroy  all  the  resemblance  you 
fancy  for  a  moment  you  have  discovered.  However  this  be,  the  author  has 
the  advantage  over  his  work — that  the  last  remains  stationary,  with  its  faults 
or  merits,  and  the  former  has  the  power  to  improve.  The  one  remains  the 
index  of  its  day,  the  other  advances  with  the  century.  That  in  a  book  writ- 
ten in  extreme  youth  there  may  be  much  that  I  would  not  write  now  in 
mature  manhood,  is  obvious  ;  that,  in  spite  of  its  defects,  the  work  should 
have  retained  to  this  day  the  popularity  it  enjoyed  in  the  first  six  months  of 
it*  birth,  is  the  best  apology  that  can  be  made  for  its  defects.  E.  B.  L. 

LONDCN,  1848. 


PELHAM; 


OR, 

ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN. 

CHAPTER  I. 

"  Ou  peut-on  etre  mieux  qu'au  sein  de  sa  famille?"* — French  Song. 

I  AM  an  only  child.  My  father  was  the  youngest  son  of  one 
of  our  oldest  earls,  my  mother  the  dowerless  daughter  of  a 
Scotch  peer.  Mr.  Pelham  was  a  moderate  whig,  and  gave 
sumptuous  dinners  ;  Lady  Frances  was  a  woman  of  taste,  and 
particularly  fond  of  diamonds  and  old  china. 

Vulgar  people  know  nothing  of  the  necessaries  required  in 
good  society,  and  the  credit  they  give  is  as  short  as  their  pedi- 
gree. Six  years  after  my  birth  there  was  an  execution  in  our 
house.  My  mother  was  just  setting  off  on  a  visit  to  the  Duchess 

of  D ;  she  declared  it  was  impossible  to  go  without  her 

diamonds.  The  chief  of  the  bailiffs  declared  it  was  impossible 
to  trust  them  out  of  his  sight.  The  matter  was  compromised — 

the  bailiff  went  with  my  mother  to  C ,  and  was  introduced 

as  my  tutor.  "  A  man  of  singular  merit,"  whispered  my  mother, 
"  but  so  shy  !  "  Fortunately,  the  bailiff  was  abashed,  and  by 
losing  his  impudence  he  kept  the  secret.  At  the  end  of  the 
week  the  diamonds  went  to  the  jeweller's,  and  Lady  Frances 
wore  paste. 

I  think  it  was  about  a  month  afterwards  that  a  sixteenth 
cousin  left  my  mother  twenty  thousand  pounds.  "It  will  just 
pay  off  our  most  importunate  creditors,  and  equip  me  for  Mel- 
ton," said  Mr.  Pelham. 

"  It  will  just  redeem  my  diamonds,  and  refurnish  the  house," 
said  Lady  Frances. 

The  latter  alternative  was  chosen.     My  father  went  down  to 

*  Whore  can  one  be  better  than  in  the  bosom  of  on*1*  family? 
13 


14  PELHAM  ; 

run  his  last  horse  at  Newmarket,  and  my  mother  received  nine 
hundred  people  in  a  Turkish  tent.  Both  were  equally  fortu- 
nate, the  Greek  and  the  Turk ;  my  father's  horse  lost,  in  con- 
sequence of  which  he  pocketed  five  thousand  pounds  ;  and  my 
mother  looked  so  charming  as  a  Sultana,  that  Seymour  Conway 
fell  desperately  in  love  with  her.  j  ^J< 

Mr.  Conway  had  just  caused  two  divorces  ;  and  of  course  all 
the  women  in  London  were  dying  for  him  ;  judge  then  of  the 
pride  which  Lady  Frances  felt  at  his  addresses.  The  end  of 
the  season  was  unusually  dull,  and  my  mother,  after  having 
looked  over  her  list  of  engagements,  and  ascertained  that  she 
had  none  remaining  worth  staying  for,  agreed  to  elope  with  her 
new  lover. 

The  carriage  was  at  the  end  of  the  square.  My  mother,  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life,  got  up  at  six  o'clock.  Her  foot  was 
on  the  step,  and  her  hand  next  to  Mr.  Conway's  heart,  when 
she  remembered  that  her  favorite  china  monster,  and  her 
French  dog,  were  left  behind.  She  insisted  on  returning — re- 
entered  the  house,  and  was  coming  downstairs  with  one  under 
each  arm,  when  she  was  met  by  my  father  and  two  servants. 
My  father's  valet  had  discovered  the  flight  (I  forget  how),  and 
awakened  his  master. 

When  my  father  was  convinced  of  his  loss,  he  called  for  his 
dressing-gown — searched  the  garret  and  the  kitchen — looked 
in  the  maid's  drawers  and  the  cellaret — and  finally  declared  he 
was  distracted.  I  have  heard  that  the  servants  were  quite 
melted  by  his  grief,  and  I  do  not  doubt  it  in  the  least,  for  he 
was  always  celebrated  for  his  skill  in  private  theatricals.  He 
was  just  retiring  to  vent  his  grief  in  his  dressing-room,  when 
he  met  my  mother.  It  must  altogether  have  been  an  awkward 
encounter,  and,  indeed,  for  my  father,  a  remarkably  unfortu- 
nate occurrence  ;  since  Seymour  Conway  was  immensely  rich, 
and  the  damages  would,  no  doubt,  have  been  proportionately 
high.  Had  they  met  each  other  alone,  the  affair  might  easily 
have  been  settled,  and  Lady  Frances  gone  off  in  tranquillity — 
those  confounded  servants  are  always  in  the  way  ! 

I  have  observed  that  the  distinguishing  trait  of  people  ac- 
customed to  good  society  is  a  calm,  imperturbable  quiet,  which 
pervades  all  their  actions  and  hatits,  from  the  greatest  to  the 
least  :  they  eat  in  quiet,  move  in  quiet,  live  in  quiet,  and  lose 
their  wife,  or  even  their  money,  in  quiet  ;  while  low  persons 
cannot  take  up  either  a  spoon  or  an  affront  without  making 
such  an  amazing  noise  about  it.  To  render  this  observation 
good,  and  to  return  to  the  intended  elopement,  nothing  farther 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          15 

was  said  upon  that  event.  My  father  introduced  Conway  to 
Brookes's,  and  invited  him  to  dinner  twice  a  week  for  a  whole 
twelvemonth. 

Not  long  after  this  occurrence,  by  the  death  of  my  grand- 
father, my  uncle  succeeded  to  the  title  and  estates  of  the  family. 
He  was,  as  people  rather  justly  observed,  rather  an  odd  man  : 
built  schools  for  peasants,  forgave  poachers,  and  diminished  his 
farmers'  rents ;  indeed,  on  account  of  these  and  similar  eccen- 
tricities, he  was  thought  a  fool  by  some,  and  a  madman  by 
others.  However,  he  was  not  quite  destitute  of  natural  feeling  ; 
for  he  paid  my  father's  debts,  and  established  us  in  the  secure 
enjoyment  of  our  former  splendor.  But  this  piece  of  generosity, 
or  justice,  was  done  in  the  most  unhandsome  manner :  he  ob- 
tained a  promise  from  my  father  to  retire  from  whist,  and  re- 
linquish the  turf ;  and  he  prevailed  upon  my  mother  to  con- 
ceive an  aversion  to  diamonds,  and  an  indifference  to  china 
monsters. 


CHAPTER    II. 

"  Tell  arts  they  have  no  soundness, 

But  vary  by  esteeming  ; 
Tell  schools  they  want  profoundness, 

And  stand  too  much  on  seeming. 
If  arts  and  schools  reply, 
Give  arts  and  schools  the  lie. " 

—  The  Sours  Errmnd. 

AT  ten  years  old  I  went  to  Eton.  I  had  been  educated  till 
that  period  by  my  mother,  who,  being  distantly  related  to 

Lord (who  had  published  "  Hints  upon  the  Culinary 

Art  "),  imagined  she  possessed  an  hereditary  claim  to  literary 
distinction.  History  was  her  great  forte ;  for  she  had  read 
all  the  historical  romances  of  the  day  ;  and  history  accordingly 
I  had  been  carefully  taught. 

I  think  at  this  moment  I  see  my  mother  before  me,  reclining 
on  her  sofa,  and  repeating  to  me  some  story  about  Queen 
Elizabeth  and  Lord  Essex  ;  then  telling  me,  in  a  languid 
voice,  as  she  sank  back  with  the  exertion,  of  the  blessings  of 
a  literary  taste,  and  admonishing  me  never  to  read  above  half 
an  hour  at  a  time  for  fear  of  losing  my  health. 

Well,  to  Eton  I  went ;  and  the  second  day  I  had  been  there 
I  was  half  killed  for  refusing,  with  all  the  pride  of  a  Pelham,  to 
wash  tea-cups.  I  was  rescued  from  the  clutches  of  my  tyrant 


j6  PELHAM  ; 

by  a  boy  not  much  bigger  than  myself,  but  reckoned  the  best 
fighter,  for  his  size,  in  the  whole  school.  His  name  was 
Reginald  Glanville  ;  from  that  period  we  became  inseparable, 
and  our  friendship  lasted  all  the  time  he  stayed  at  Eton, 
which  was  within  a  year  of  my  own  departure  for  Cambridge. 

His  father  was  a  baronet,  of  a  very  ancient  and  wealthy 
family  ;  and  his  mother  was  a  woman  of  some  talent  and  more 
ambition.  She  made  her  house  one  of  the  most  attractive  in 
London.  Seldom  seen  at  large  assemblies,  she  was  eagerly 
sought  after  in  the  well-winnowed  soirees  of  the  elect.  Her 
wealth,  great  as  it  was,  seemed  the  least  prominent  ingredient 
of  her  establishment.  There  was  in  it  no  uncalled-for  ostenta- 
tion, no  purse-proud  vulgarity,  no  cringing  to  great,  and  no 
patronizing  condescension  to  little  people  ;  even  the  Sunday 
newspapers  could  not  find  fault  with  her,  and  the  querulous 
wives  of  younger  brothers  could  only  sneer  and  be  silent. 

"  It  is  an  excellent  connection,"  said  my  mother,  when  I 
told  her  of  my  friendship  with  Reginald  Glanville,  "  and  will 
be  of  more  use  to  you  than  many  of  greater  apparent  conse- 
quence. Remember,  my  dear,  that  in  all  the  friends  you 
make  at  present,  you  look  to  the  advantage  you  can  derive 
from  them  hereafter  ;  that  is  what  we  call  knowledge  of  the 
world,  and  it  is  to  get  the  knowledge  of  the  world  that  you 
are  sent  to  a  public  school." 

I  think,  however,  to  my  shame,  that  notwithstanding  my  moth- 
er's instructions, very  few  prudential  considerations  were  mingled 
with  my  friendship  for  Reginald  Glanville.  I  loved  him  with  a 
warmth  of  attachment  which  has  since  surprised  even  myself. 

He  was  of  a  very  singular  character  ;  he  used  to  wander  by 
the  river  in  the  bright  days  of  summer,  when  all  else  were  at 
play,  without  any  companion  but  his  own  thoughts  ;  and 
these  were  tinged,  even  at  that  early  age,  with  a  deep  and  im- 
passioned melancholy.  He  was  so  reserved  in  his  manner, 
that  it  was  looked  upon  as  coldness  or  pride,  and  was  repaid 
as  such  by  a  pretty  general  dislike.  Yet  to  those  he  loved,  no 
one  could  be  more  open  and  warm  ;  more  watchful  to  gratify 
others,  more  indifferent  to  gratification  for  himself  ;  an  utter 
absence  of  all  selfishness,  and  an  eager  and  active  benevolence, 
were  indeed  the  distinguishing  traits  of  his  character.  I  have 
seen  him  endure  with  a  careless  good-nature  the  most  provok- 
ing affronts  from  boys  much  less  than  himself  ;  but  if  I,  or  any 
other  of  his  immediate  friends,  was  injured  or  aggrieved,  his 
anger  was  almost  implacable.  Although  he  was  of  a  slight 
frame,  yet  early  exercise  had  brought  strength  to  his  muscles, 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          17 

and  activity  to  his  limbs  ;  while  there  was  that  in  his  courage 
and  will  which,  despite  his  reserve  and  unpopularity,  always 
marked  him  out  as  a  leader  in  those  enterprises  wherein  we 
test  as  boys  the  qualities  which  chiefly  contribute  to  secure 
hereafter  our  position  amongst  men. 

Such,  briefly  and  imperfectly  sketched,  was  the  character  of 
Reginald  Glanville — the  one  who,  of  all  my  early  companions, 
differed  the  most  from  myself ;  yet  the  one  whom  I  loved  the 
most,  and  the  one  whose  future  destiny  was  the  most  inter- 
twined with  my  own. 

I  was  in  the  head  class  when  I  left  Eton.  As  I  was  reckoned 
an  uncommonly  well-educated  boy,  it  may  not  be  ungratifying 
to  the  admirers  of  the  present  system  of  education  to  pause 
here  for  a  moment,  and  recall  what  I  then  knew.  I  could  make 
fifty  Latin  verses  in  half  an  hour ;  I  could  construe,  without 
an  English  translation,  all  the  easy  Latin  authors,  and  many  of 
the  difficult  ones,  with  it ;  I  could  read  Greek  fluently,  and 
even  translate  it  through  the  medium  of  the  Latin  version 
technically  called  a  crib.*  I  was  thought  exceedingly  clever, 
for  I  had  been  only  eight  years  acquiring  all  this  fund  of  infor- 
mation, which,  as  one  need  never  recall  it  in  the  world,  you  have 
every  right  to  suppose  that  I  had  entirely  forgotten  before  I  was 
five-and-twenty.  As  I  was  never  taught  a  syllable  of  English 
during  this  period  ;  as,  when  I  once  attempted  to  read  Pope's 
poems  out  of  school  hours,  I  was  laughed  at,  and  called  "  a 
sap  " ;  as  my  mother,  when  I  went  to  school,  renounced  her 
own  instructions  ;  and  as,  whatever  schoolmasters  may  think 
to  the  contrary,  one  learns  nothing  nowadays  by  inspiration  : 
so  of  everything  which  relates  to  English  literature,  English 
laws,  and  English  history  (with  the  exception  of  the  said  story 
of  Queen  Elizabeth  and  Lord  Essex),  you  have  the  same  right 
to  suppose  that  I  was,  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  when  I  left  Eton, 
in  the  profoundest  ignorance. 

At  this  age,  I  was  transplanted  to  Cambridge,  where  I  bloomed 
for  two  years  in  the  blue  and  silver  of  a  fellow  commoner  of 
Trinity.  At  the  end  of  that  time  (being  of  royal  descent)  I 
became  entitled  to  an  honorary  degree.  I  suppose  the  term  is 
in  contradistinction  to  an  honorable  degree,  which  is  obtained 
by  pale  men  in  spectacles  and  cotton  stockings,  after  thirty-six 
months  of  intense  application. 

*  It  is  but  just  to  say  that  the  educational  system  at  public  schools  is  greatly  improved 
since  the  above  was  written.  And  take  those  great  seminaries  altogether,  it  may  be  doubted 
whether  any  institutions  more  philosophical  in  theory  are  better  adapted  to  secure  that 
union  of  classical  tastes  with  manly  habits  and  honorable  sentiments  which  distinguishes 
the  English  gentleman. 


I  do  not  exactly  remember  how  I  spent  my  time  at  Cam- 
bridge. I  had  a  piano-forte  in  my  room,  and  a  private  billiard- 
room  at  a  village  two  miles  off  ;  and,  between  these  resources, 
1  managed  to  improve  my  mind  more  than  could  reasonably  have 
been  expected.  To  say  truth,  the  whole  place  reeked  with  vul- 
garity. The  men  drank  beer  by  the  gallon,  and  ate  cheese  by 
the  hundred  weight  ;  wore  jockey-cut  coats,  and  talked  slang  ; 
rode  for  wagers,  and  swore  when  they  lost ;  smoked  in  your 
face,  and  expectorated  on  the  floor.  Their  proudest  glory  was 
to  drive  the  mail;  their  mightiest  exploit  to  box  with  the  coach- 
man ;  their  most  delicate  amour  to  leer  at  the  barmaid.* 

It  will  be  believed  that  I  felt  little  regret  in  quitting  com- 
panions of  this  description.  I  went  to  take  leave  of  our  col- 
lege tutor.  "  Mr.  Pelham,"  said  he,  affectionately  squeezing 
me  by  the  hand,  "your  conduct  has  been  most  exemplary  ;  you 
have  not  walked  wantonly  over  the  college  grassplats,  nor  set 
your  dog  at  the  proctor  ;  nor  driven  tandems  by  day,  nor 
broken  lamps  by  night ;  nor  entered  the  chapel  in  order  to 
display  your  intoxication  ;  nor  the  lecture-room,  in  order  to 
caricature  the  professors.  This  is  the  general  behavior  of 
young  men  of  family  and  fortune  ;  but  it  has  not  been  yours. 
Sir,  you  have  been  an  honor  to  your  college." 

Thus  closed  my  academical  career.  He  who  does  not  allow 
that  it  passed  creditably  to  my  teachers,  profitably  to  myself, 
and  beneficially  to  the  world,  is  a  narrow-minded  and  illiterate 
man,  who  knows  nothing  of  the  advantages  of  modern  edu- 
cation. 


CHAPTER  III. 

"  Thus  does  a  false  ambition  rule  us, 

Thus  pomp  delude,  and  folly  fool  us." — SHENSTONE 

"An  open  house,  haunted  with  great  resort." — BISHOP  HALL'S  Satires. 

I  LEFT  Cambridge  in  a  very  weak  state  of  health  ;  and  as 
nobody  had  yet  come  to  London,  I  accepted  the  invitation  of 
Sir  Lionel  Garrett  to  pay  him  a  visit  at  his  country  seat. 
Accordingly,  one  raw  winter's  day,  full  of  the  hopes  of  the 
reviving  influence  of  air  and  exercise,  I  found  myself  carefully 
packed  up  in  three  great-coats,  and  on  the  high  road  to  Gar- 
rett Park. 

*  This,  at  that  time,  was  a  character  that  could  only  be  applied  to  the  gayest,  that  is  the 
worst,  set  at  the  University— and  perhaps  now  the  character  may  scarcely  exist. 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.  19 

Sir  Lionel  Garrett  was  a  character  very  common  in  England, 
and,  in  describing  him,  I  describe  the  whole  species.  He  was 
of  an  ancient  family,  and  his  ancestors  had  for  centuries  resided 
on  their  estates  in  Norfolk.  Sir  Lionel,  who  came  to  his 
majority  and  his  fortune  at  the  same  time,  went  up  to  London 
at  the  age  of  twenty-one,  a  raw,  uncouth  sort  of  young  man, 
with  a  green  coat  and  lank  hair.  His  friends  in  town  were  of 
that  set  whose  members  are  above  Ion,  whenever  they  do  not 
grasp  at  its  possession,  but  who,  whenever  they  do,  lose  at 
once  their  aim  and  their  equilibrium,  and  fall  immeasurably 
below  it.  I  mean  that  set  which  I  call  "the  respectable"  con- 
sisting of  old  peers  of  an  old  school ;  country  gentlemen,  who 
still  disdain  not  to  love  their  wine  and  to  hate  the  French  ; 
generals  who  have  served  in  the  army  ;  elder  brothers  who  suc- 
ceed to  something  besides  a  mortgage  ;  and  younger  brothers 
who  do  not  mistake  their  capital  for  their  income.  To  this  set 
you  may  add  the  whole  of  the  baronetage — for  I  have  remarked 
that  baronets  hang  together  like  bees  or  Scotchmen  ;  and  if  I 
go  to  a  baronet's  house,  and  speak  to  some  one  whom  I  have 
not  the  happiness  to  know,  I  always  say  "  Sir  John!  " 

It  was  no  wonder,  then,  that  to  this  set  belonged  Sir  Lionel 
Garrett — no  more  the  youth  with  a  green  coat  and  lank  hair, 
but  pinched  in,  and  curled  out  ;  abounding  in  horses  and 
whiskers  ;  dancing  all  night,  lounging  all  day ;  the  favorite  of 
the  old  ladies,  the  Philander  of  the  young. 

One  unfortunate  evening  Sir  Lionel  Garrett  was  introduced 
to  the  celebrated  Duchess  of  D.  From  that  moment  his  head 
was  turned.  Before  then  he  had  always  imagined  that  he  was 
somebody — that  he  was  Sir  Lionel  Garrett,  with  a  good  look- 
ing person  and  eight  thousand  a  year  !  he  now  knew  that  he 
was  nobody,  unless  he  went  to  Lady  G.'s,  and  unless  he  bowed 
to  Lady  S.  Disdaining  all  importance  derived  from  himself, 
it  became  absolutely  necessary  to  his  happiness  that  all  his 
importance  should  be  derived  solely  from  his  acquaintance 
with  others.  He  cared  not  a  straw  that  he  was  a  man  of  for- 
tune, of  family,  of  consequence ;  he  must  be  a  man  of  ton;  or 
he  was  an  atom,  a  nonentity,  a  very  worm,  and  no  man.  No 
lawyer  at  Gray's  Inn,  no  galley  slave  at  the  oar,  ever  worked 
so  hard  at  his  task  as  Sir  Lionel  Garrett  at  his.  Ton,  to  a 
single  man,  is  a  thing  attainable  enough.  Sir  Lionel  was  just 
gaining  the  envied  distinction  when  he  saw,  courted,  and  mar- 
ried Lady  Harriet  Woodstock. 

His  new  wife  was  of  a  modern  and  not  very  rich  family,  and 
striving  like  Sir  Lionel  for  the  notoriety  of  fashion  ;  but  of  this 


20  PELHAM  ; 

struggle  he  was  ignorant.  He  saw  her  admitted  into  good 
society — he  imagined  she  commanded  it ;  she  was  a  hanger  on — 
he  believed  she  was  a  leader.  Lady  Harriet  was  crafty  and 
twenty-four ;  had  no  objection  to  be  married,  nor  to  change 
the  name  of  Woodstock  for  Garrett.  She  kept  up  the  baronet's 
mistake  till  it  was  too  late  to  repair  it. 

Marriage  did  not  bring  Sir  Lionel  wisdom.  His  wife  was  of 
the  same  turn  of  mind  as  himself.  They  might  have  been 
great  people  in  the  country  ;  they  prefer^d  being  little  people 
in  town.  They  might  have  chosen  ffiet'^".  among  persons  of 
respectability  and  rank;  they  preferred  being  chosen  as  ac- 
quaintance by  persons  of  ton.  Society  was  their  being's  end 
and  aim,  and  the  only  thing  which  brought  them  pleasure  was 
the  pain  of  attaining  it.  Did  I  not  say  truly  that  I  would  de- 
scribe individuals  of  a  common  species  ?  Is  there  one  who  reads 
this  who  does  not  recognize  that  overflowing  class  of  our  popula- 
tion, whose  members  would  conceive  it  an  insult  to  be  thought 
of  sufficient  rank  to  be  respectable  for  what  they  are  ?  who  take 
it  as  an  honor  that  they  are  made  by  their  acquaintance  ?  who 
renounce  the  ease  of  living  for  themselves,  for  the  trouble  of 
living  for  persons  who  care  not  a  pin  for  their  existence?  who 
are  wretched  if  thay  are  not  dictated  to  by  others  ?  and  who 
toil,  groan,  travail,  through  the  whole  course  of  life,  in  order 
to  forfeit  their  independence  ? 

I  arrived  at  Garrett  Park  just  time  enough  to  dress  for  din- 
ner. As  I  was  descending  the  stairs  after  having  performed 
that  ceremony,  I  heard  my  own  name  pronounced  by  a  very 
soft,  lisping  voice  :  "  Henry  Pelham  !  Dev,  what  a  pretty 
name.  Is  he  handsome?" 

"Rather  elegant  than  handsome,"  was  the  unsatisfactory  re- 
ply, couched  in  a  slow,  pompous  accent,  which  I  immediately 
recognized  to  belong  to  Lady  Harriet  Garrett. 

"  Can  we  make  something  of  him  ?  "  resumed  the  first  voice. 

"Something?"  said  Lady  Harriet  indignantly;  "he  will  be 
Lord  Glenmorris !  and  he  is  son  to  Lady  Frances  Pelham." 

"Ah,"  said  the  lisper  carelessly  ;  "but  can  he  write  poetry, 
and  play  proverbes?" 

"No,  Lady  Harriet,"  said  I,  advancing;  "but  permit  me, 
through  you,  to  assure  Lady  Nelthorpe  that  he  can  admire 
those  who  do." 

"  So  you  know  me,  then  ?"  said  the  lisper:  "I  see  we  shall 
be  excellent  friends";  and,  disengaging  herself  from  Lady 
Harriet,  she  took  my  arm,  and  began  discussing  persons  and 
things,  poetry  and  china,  French  plays  and  music,  till  I  found 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.  21 

myself  beside  her  at  dinner,  and  most  assiduously  endeavoring 
to  silence  her  by  the  superior  engrossments  of  a  be'chamellc  de 
poisson. 

I  took  the  opportunity  of  the  pause  to  survey  the  little  circle 
of  which  Lady  Harriet  was  the  centre.  In  the  first  place,  there 
was  Mr.  Davison,  a  great  political  economist,  a  short,  dark, 
corpulent  gentleman,  with  a  quiet,  serene,  sleepy  countenance; 
beside  him  was  a  quick,  sharp  little  woman,  all  sparkle  and  bustle, 
glancing  a  small  gray,  prying  eye  round  the  table,  with  a  most 
restless  activity  :  this,  Lady  Nelthorpe  afterwards  informed 
me,  was  a  Miss  Trafford,  an  excellent  person  for  a  Christmas  in 
the  country,  whom  everybody  was  dying  to  have:  she  was  an 
admirable  mimic,  an  admirable  actress,  and  an  admirable 
reciter  ;  made  poetry  and  shoes,  and  told  fortunes  by  the  cards, 
which  actually  came  true  ! 

There  was  also  Mr.  Wormwood,  the  noli-me-tangere  of  literary 
lions — an  author  who  sowed  his  conversation  not  with  flowers 
but  thorns.  Nobody  could  accuse  him  of  the  flattery  generally 
imputed  to  his  species :  through  the  course  of  a  long  and 
varied  life  he  had  never  once  been  known  to  say  a  civil  thing. 
He  was  too  much  disliked  not  be  sought  after ;  whatever  is 
once  notorious,  even  for  being  disagreeable,  is  sure  to  be 
courted.  Opposite  to  him  sat  the  really  clever,  and  affectedly 
pedantic,  Lord  Vincent,  one  of  those  persons  who  have  been 
"  promising  young  men"  all  their  lives  ;  who  are  found  till  four 
o'clock  in  the  afternon  in  a  dressing-gown,  with  a  quarto  be- 
fore them  ;  who  go  down  into  the  country  for  six  weeks  every 
session,  to  cram  an  impromptu  reply  ;  and  who  always  have  a 
work  in  the  press  which  is  never  to  be  published. 

Lady  Nelthorpe  herself  I  had  frequently  seen.  She  had 
some  reputation  for  talent,  was  exceedingly  affected,  wrote 
poetry  in  albums,  ridiculed  her  husband  (who  was  a  fox  hunter), 
and  had  a  particular  taste  for  the  fine  arts. 

There  were  four  or  five  others  of  the  unknown  vulgar,  younger 
brothers,  who  were  good  shots  and  bad  matches  ;  elderly  ladies, 
who  lived  in  Baker  Street,  and  liked  long  whist ;  and  young 
ones,  who  never  took  wine,  and  said  "  Sir  !  " 

I  must,  however,  among  this  number,  except  the  beautiful 
Lady  Roseville,  the  most  fascinating  woman,  perhaps,  of  the 
day.  She  was  evidently  the  great  person  there,  and,  indeed, 
among  all  people  who  paid  due  deference  to  ton,  was  always 
sure  to  be  so  everywhere.  I  have  never  seen  but  one  person 
more  beautiful.  Her  eyes  were  of  the  deepest  blue  ;  her  com- 
plexion of  the  most  delicate  carnation  ;  her  hair  of  the  richest 


22  PELHAM  J 

auburn  :  nor  could  even  Mr.  Wormwood  detect  the  smallest 
fault  in  the  rounded  yet  slender  symmetry  of  her  figure. 

Although  not  above  twenty-five,  she  was  in  that  state  in 
which  alone  a  woman  ceases  to  be  a  dependant — widowhood. 
Lord  Roseville,  who  had  been  dead  about  two  years,  had  not 
survived  their  marriage  many  months  ;  that  period  was,  how- 
ever, sufficiently  long  to  allow  him  to  appreciate  her  excellence, 
and  to  testify  his  sense  of  it :  the  whole  of  his  unentailed 
property,  which  was  very  large,  he  bequeathed  to  her. 

She  was  very  fond  of  the  society  of  literary  persons,  though 
without  the  pretence  of  belonging  to  their  order.  But  her 
manners  constituted  her  chief  attraction  :  while  they  were 
utterly  different  from  those  of  every  one  else,  you  could  not, 
in  the  least  minutiae,  discover  in  what  the  difference  consisted  : 
this  is,  in  my  opinion,  the  real  test  of  perfect  breeding.  While 
you  are  enchanted  with  the  effect,  it  should  possess  so  little 
prominency  and  peculiarity,  that  you  should  never  be  able  to 
guess  the  cause. 

"  Pray,"  said  Lord  Vincent  to  Mr.  Wormwood,  "  have  you 
been  to  P this  year?" 

"  No,"  was  the  answer. 

"  I  have,"  said  Miss  Trafford,  who  never  lost  an  opportunity 
of  slipping  in  a  word. 

"  Well,  and  did  they  make  you  sleep,  as  usual,  at  the  Crown, 
with  the  same  infernal  excuse,  after  having  brought  you  fifty 
miles  from  town,  of  small  house — no  beds — all  engaged — inn 
close  by  ?  Ah,  never  shall  I  forget  that  inn,  with  its  royal 
name,  and  its  hard  beds — 

'  Uneasy  sleeps  a  head  beneath  the  Crown  ! ' " 

*'  Ha,  ha  !  Excellent !  "  cried  Miss  Trafford,  who  was  always 
the  first  in  at  the  death  of  a  pun.  "  Yes,  indeed  they  did  : 
poor  old  Lord  Belton,  with  his  rheumatism  ;  and  that  immense 
General  Grant,  with  his  asthma ;  together  with  three  '  single 
men,'  and  myself,  were  safely  conveyed  to  that  asylum  for  the 
destitute." 

"  Ah  !  Grant,  Grant !  "  said  Lord  Vincent  eagerly,  who  saw 
another  opportunity  of  whipping  in  a  pun.  "  He  slept  there 
also  the  same  night  I  did  ;  and  when  I  saw  his  unwieldy  person 
waddling  out  of  the  door  the  next  morning,  I  said  to  Temple, 
*  Well,  that's  the  largest  Grant  I  ever  saw  from  the  Crown'  "  * 

"Very  good,"  said  Wormwood  gravely.  "I  declare,  Vin- 
cent, you  are  growing  quite  witty.  You  know  Jekyl,  of  course? 

*  It  was  from  Mr.  J.  Smith  that  Lord  Vincent  purloined  this  pun. 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.  «3 

Poor  fellow,  what  a  really  good  punster  he  was  !  Not  agree- 
able though,  particularly  at  dinner — no  punsters  are.  Mr. 
Davison,  what  is  that  dish  next  to  you  ?" 

Mr.  Davison  was  a  great  gourmand.  "  Salmi  de  perdrcaux 
aux  truffes,"  replied  the  political  economist. 

"Truffles  !  "  said  Wormwood,  "  have_jw/  been  eating  any  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Davison,  with  unusual  energy,  "  and  they  are 
the  best  I  have  tasted  for  a  long  time." 

"  Very  likely,"  said  Wormwood,  with  a  dejected  air.  "  I  am 
particularly  fond  of  them,  but  I  dare  not  touch  one — truffles 
are  so  very  apoplectic.  You,  I  make  no  doubt,  may  eat  them 
in  safety." 

Wormwood  was  a  tall,  meagre  man,  with  a  neck  a  yard  long. 
Davison  was,  as  I  have  said,  short  and  fat,  and  made  without 
any  apparent  neck  at  all — only  head  and  shoulders,  like  a  cod- 
fish. 

Poor  Mr.  Davison  turned  perfectly  white  ;  he  fidgeted  about 
in  his  chair  ;  cast  a  look  of  the  most  deadly  fear  and  aversion 
at  the  fatal  dish  he  had  been  so  attentive  to  before  ;  and, 
muttering  "  apoplectic  ! "  closed  his  lips,  and  did  not  open 
them  again  all  dinner-time. 

Mr.  Wormwood's  object  was  effected.  Two  people  were 
silenced  and  uncomfortable,  and  a  sort  of  mist  hung  over  the 
spirits  of  the  whole  party.  The  dinner  went  on  and  off,  like  all 
other  dinners  ;  the  ladies  retired,  and  the  men  drank,  and  talked 
politics.  Mr.  Davison  left  the  room  first,  in  order  to  look  out 
the  word  "truffle,"  in  the  Encyclopaedia ;  and  Lord  Vincent 
and  I  went  next,  "  lest  (as  my  companion  characteristically 
observed)  that  d — d  Wormwood  should,  if  we  stayed  a 
moment  longer,  'send  us  weeping  to  our  beds.'" 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  Oh  !  la  belle  chose  que  la  Poste  !  "  * — Letires  de  Shrignt. 
' '  Ay — but  who  is  it  ? " — A s    You  Like  It. 

I  HAD  mentioned  to  my  mother  my  intended  visit  to  Garrett 
Park,  and  the  second  day  after  my  arrival  there  came  the  fol- 
lowing letter : 
"  MY  DEAR  HENRY: 

"  I    was    very  glad  to   hear  you    were  rather  better  than 

*  Oh  !  what  a  beautiful  thing  is — the  post-office. 


24  PELHAM  J 

you  had  been.  I  trust  you  will  take  great  care  of  yourself.  I 
think  flannel  waistcoats  might  be  advisable  ;  and,  by-the-by, 
they  are  very  good  for  the  complexion.  Apropos  of  the  com- 
plexion :  I  did  not  like  that  blue  coat  you  wore  when  I  last 
saw  you  ;  you  look  best  in  black  ;  which  is  a  great  compliment, 
for  people  must  be  very  distinguished  in  appearance  in  order 
to  do  so. 

"You  know,  my  dear,  that  those  Garretts  are  in  themselves 
anything  but  unexceptionable  ;  you  will,  therefore,  take  care 
not  to  be  too  intimate  ;  it  is,  however,  a  very  good  house  : 
most  whom  you  meet  there  are  worth  knowing,  for  one  thing 
or  the  other.  Remember,  Henry,  that  the  acquaintance  (riot 
the  friends)  of  second  or  third-rate  people  are  always  sure  to 
be  good  :  they  are  not  independent  enough  to  receive  whom 
they  like — their  whole  rank  is  in  their  guests  :  you  may  be  also 
sure  that  the  manage  will,  in  outward  appearance  at  least,  be 
quite  comme  il  faut,  and  for  the  same  reason.  Gain  as  much 
knowledge  de  Part  culinaire  as  you  can  :  it  is  an  accomplish- 
ment absolutely  necessary.  You  may  also  pick  up  a  little  ac- 
quaintance with  metaphysics,  if  you  have  any  opportunity  ;  that 
sort  of  thing  is  a  good  deal  talked  about  just  at  present. 

"  I  hear  Lady  Roseville  is  at  Garrett  Park.  You  must  be 
particularly  attentive  to  her  ;  you  will  probably  now  have  an 
opportunity  de  faire  votre  cour  that  may  never  again  happen. 
In  London,  she  is  so  much  surrounded  by  all  that  she  is  quite 
inaccessible  to  one ;  besides,  there  you  will  have  so  many 
rivals.  Without  flattery  to  you,  I  take  it  for  granted  that  you 
are  the  best-looking  and  most  agreeable  person  at  Garrett 
Park,  and  it  will,  therefore,  be  a  most  unpardonable  fault  if 
you  do  not  make  Lady  Roseville  of  the  same  opinion.  Noth- 
ing, my  dear  son,  is  like  a  liaison  (quite  innocent,  of  course) 
with  a  woman  of  celebrity  in  the  world.  In  marriage  a  man 
lowers  a  woman  to  his  own  rank  ;  in  an  affaire  de  caur  he 
raises  himself  to  hers.  I  need  not,  I  am  sure,  after  what  I 
have  said,  press  this  point  any  further. 

"  Write  to  me  and  inform  me  of  all  your  proceedings.  If 
you  mention  the  people  who  are  at  Garrett  Park,  I  can  tell  you 
the  proper  line  of  conduct  to  pursue  with  each. 

"  I  am  sure  that  I  need  not  add  that  I  have  nothing  but  your 
real  good  at  heart,  and  that  I  am  your  very  affectionate  mother, 

"  FRANCIS  PELHAM. 

"  P.  S. — Never  talk  much  to  young  men  ;  remember  that  it 
is  the  women  who  make  a  reputation  in  society." 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          4$ 

"  Well,"  said  I,  when  I  had  read  this  letter,  "  my  mother  is 
very  right,  and  so  now  for  Lady  Roseville." 

I  went  downstairs  to  breakfast.  Miss  Trafford  and  Lady 
Nelthorpe  were  in  the  room,  talking  with  great  interest,  and, 
on  Miss  Trafford's  part,  with  still  greater  vehemence. 

"  So  handsome,"  said  Lady  Nelthorpe,  as  I  approached. 

"  Are  you  talking  of  me?  "  said  I. 

"  Oh,  you  vanity  of  vanities  !  "  was  the  answer.  "  No,  we 
were  speaking  of  a  very  romantic  adventure  which  has  hap- 
pened to  Miss  Trafford  and  myself,  and  disputing  about  the 
hero  of  it.  Miss  Trafford  declares  he  is  frightful ;  J  say  that 
he  is  beautiful.  Now,  you  know,  Mr.  Pelham,  as  to  you — " 

"  There  can  be  but  one  opinion  ;  but  the  adventure?  " 

"  Is  this  !  "  cried  Miss  Trafford,  in  great  fright,  lest  Lady 
Nelthorpe  should,  by  speaking  first,  have  the  pleasure  of  the 
narration  :  "  We  were  walking,  two  or  three  days  ago,  by  the 
sea-side,  picking  up  shells  and  talking  about  the  '  Corsair,' 
when  a  large,  fierce — " 

"  Man  !  "  interrupted  I. 

"  No,  dog  "  (renewed  Miss  Trafford),  "  flew  suddenly  out  of 
a  cave,  under  a  rock,  and  began  howling  at  dear  Lady  Nel- 
thorpe and  me,  in  the  most  savage  manner  imaginable.  He 
would  certainly  have  torn  us  to  pieces  if  a  very  tall — " 

"  Not  so  very  tall  either,"  said  Lady  Nelthorpe. 

"  Dear,  how  you  interrupt  one,"  said  Miss  Trafford  pet- 
tishly ;  "  well,  a  very  short  man,  then,  wrapped  up  in  a 
cloak — " 

"  In  a  great-coat,"  drawled  Lady  Nelthorpe.  Miss  Trafford 
went  on  without  noticing  the  emendation, — "  had  not,  with 
incredible  rapidity,  sprung  down  the  rock  and — " 

"  Called  him  off,"  said  Lady  Nelthorpe. 

"Yes,  called  him  off,"  pursued  Miss  Trafford,  looking  round 
for  the  necessary  symptoms  of  our  wonder  at  this  very  extra- 
ordinary incident. 

"What  is  the  most  remarkable,"  said  Lady  Nelthorpe,  "  is, 
that  though  he  seemed  from  his  dress  and  appearance  to  be 
really  a  gentleman,  he  never  stayed  to  ask  if  we  were  alarmed 
or  hurt — scarcely  even  looked  at  us — " 

("  I  don't  wonder  at  that !"  said  Mr.  Wormwood,  who,  with 
Lord  Vincent,  had  just  entered  the  room) ; 

" — and  vanished  among  the  rocks  as  suddenly  as  he 
appeared." 

"  Oh,  you've  seen  that  fellow,  have  you  ? "  said  Lord  Vin- 
cent :  "  so  have  I,  and  a  devilish  queer-looking  person  he  is ; 


26  PELHAM  ; 

'  The  balls  of  his  broad  eyes  roll'd  in  his  head, 
And  glar'd  betwixt  a  yellow  and  a  red  ; 
He  looked  a  lion  with  a  gloomy  stare, 
And  o'er  his  eyebrows  hung  his  matted  hair.' 

Well  remembered,  and  better  applied — eh,  Mr.  Pelham  ? " 

"Really,"  said  I, "  I  am  not  able  to  judge  of  the  application, 
since  I  have  not  seen  the  hero." 

"Oh  !  it's  admirable,"  said  Miss  Trafford,  "just  the  descrip- 
tion I  should  have  given  of  him  in  prose.  But  pray,  where, 
when,  and  how  did  you  see  him  ?  " 

"  Your  question  is  religiously  mysterious,  tria  juncta  in  un0," 
replied  Vincent  ;  "  but  I  will  answer  it  with  the  simplicity  of 
a  Quaker.  The  other  evening  I  was  coming  home  from  one 
of  Sir  Lionel's  preserves,  and  had  sent  the  keeper  on  before,  in 
order  more  undisturbedly  to — " 

"  Con  witticisms  for  dinner,"  said  Wormwood. 

"To  make  out  the  meaning  of  Mr.  Wormwood's  last  work," 
continued  Lord  Vincent.  "  My  shortest  way  lay  through  that 
churchyard  about  a  mile  hence,  which  is  such  a  lion  in  this  ugly 
part  of  the  country,  because  it  has  three  thistles  and  a  tree. 
Just  as  I  got  there  I  saw  a  man  suddenly  rise  from  the  earth, 
where  he  appeared  to  have  been  lying ;  he  stood  still  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  (evidently  not  perceiving  me)  raised  his  clasped 
hands  to  heaven,  and  muttered  some  words  I  was  not  able  dis- 
tinctly to  hear.  As  I  approached  nearer  to  him,  which  I  did 
with  no  very  pleasant  sensations,  a  large  black  dog,  which,  till 
then  had  remained  couchant,  sprang  towards  me  with  a  loud 
growl : 

4  Sonat  hie  de  nare  canina 
Litera,' 

as  Persius  has  it.     I  was  too  terrified  to  move — 
'  Obstupui — steteruntque  comae — ' 

and  I  should  most  infallibly  have  been  converted  into  dog's 
meat,  if  our  mutual  acquaintance  had  not  started  from  his 
reverie,  called  his  dog  by  the  very  appropriate  name  of  Terror, 
and  then,  slouching  his  hat  over  his  face,  passed  rapidly  by 
me,  dog  and  all.  I  did  not  recover  the  fright  for  an  hour  and 
a  quarter.  I  walked — ye  gods,  how  I  did  walk  !  No  wonder, 
by  the  by,  that  I  mended  my  pace,  for,  as  Pliny  says  truly  : 

'  Timor  est  emendalor  asperrimus.'  "  * 

*  Most  of  the  quotations  from  Latin  or  French  authors  interspersed  throughout  this 
work  will  be  translated  for  the  convenience  of  the  general  reader  ;  but  exceptions  will  be  made 
nrhere  such  quotations  (as  is  sometimes  the  case  when  from  the  mouth  of  LordVincent)merely 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          27 

Mr.  Wormwood  had  been  very  impatient  during  this  recital, 
preparing  an  attack  upon  Lord  Vincent,  when  Mr.  Davison, 
entering  suddenly,  diverted  the  assault. 

"Good  heavens  !"  said  Wormwood,  dropping  his  roll,  "how 
very  ill  you  look  to-day,  Mr.  Davidson  ;  face  flushed,  veins 
swelled, — oh,  those  horrid  truffles  !  Miss  Trafford,  I'll  trouble 
you  for  the  salt." 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  Be  she  fairer  than  the  day, 
Or  the  flowery  meads  in  May  ; 
If  she  be  not  so  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  fair  she  be  ?  " 

— GEORGE  WITHERS. 

"  ....   It  was  great  pity,  so  it  was, 
That  villainous  saltpetre  should  be  digged 
Out  of  the  bowels  of  the  harmless  earth, 
Which  many  a  good  tall  fellow  had  destroyed." 

—First  Part  of  King  Henry  IV. 

SEVERAL  days  passed.  I  had  taken  particular  pains  to  in- 
gratiate myself  with  Lady  Roseville,  and,  so  far  as  common 
acquaintance  went,  I  had  no  reason  to  be  dissatisfied  with  my 
success.  Anything  else,  I  soon  discovered,  notwithstanding 
my  vanity  (which  made  no  inconsiderable  part  in  the  composi- 
tion of  Henry  Pelham),  was  quite  out  of  the  question.  Her 
mind  was  wholly  of  a  different  mould  from  my  own.  She 
was  like  a  being,  not  perhaps  of  a  better,  but  of  another  world 
than  myself  :  we  had  not  one  thougnt  or  opinion  in  common  ; 
we  looked  upon  things  with  a  totally  different  vision  ;  I  was 
soon  convinced  that  she  was  of  a  nature  exactly  contrary  to 
what  was  generally  believed — she  was  anything  but  the  mere 
mechanical  woman  of  the  world.  She  possessed  great  sensi- 
bility, and  even  romance  of  temper,  strong  passions,  and  still 
stronger  imagination  ;  but  over  all  these  deeper  recesses  of 
her  character,  the  extreme  softness  and  languor  of  her  manners 
threw  a  veil  which  no  superficial  observer  could  penetrate. 
There  were  times  when  I  could  believe  that  she  was  inwardly 
restless  and  unhappy ;  but  she  was  too  well  versed  in  the  arts 

contain  a  play  upon  words,  which  are  pointless,  out  of  the  language  employed,  or  which 
only  iterate  or  illustrate,  by  a  characteristic  pedantry,  the  sentence  that  precedes  or  fol- 
lows them. 


28  PELHAM  ; 

of  concealment,  to  suffer  such  an  appearance  to  be  more  than 
momentary. 

I  must  own  that  I  consoled  myself  very  easily  for  my  want, 
in  this  particular  instance,  of  that  usual  good  fortune  which  at- 
tends me  with  the  divine  sex ;  the  fact  was,  that  I  had  another 
object  in  pursuit.  All  the  men  at  Sir  Lionel  Garrett's  were 
keen  sportsmen.  Now,  shooting  is  an  amusement  I  was  never 
particularly  partial  to,  I  was  first  disgusted  with  that  species 
of  rational  recreation  at  zbattue,  where, instead  of  bagging  any- 
thing, I  was  nearly  bagged,  having  been  inserted,  like  wine  in  an 
ice  pail,  in  a  wet  ditch  for  three  hours,  during  which  time  my  hat 
had  been  twice  shot  at  for  a  pheasant,  and  my  leather  gaiters  once 
for  a  hare  ;  and  to  crown  all,  when  these  several  mistakes  were 
discovered,  my  intended  exterminators,  instead  of  apologizing 
for  having  shot  at  me,  were  quite  disappointed  at  having 
missed. 

Seriously  that  same  shooting  is  a  most  barbarous  amusement, 
only  fit  for  majors  in  the  army,  and  royal  dukes,  and  that  sort 
of  people  ;  the  mere  walking  is  bad  enough,  but  embarrassing 
one's  arms,  moreover,  with  a  gun,  and  one's  legs  with  turnip 
tops,  exposing  oneself  to  the  mercy  of  bad  shots  and  the  atrocity 
of  good,  seems  to  me  only  a  state  of  painful  fatigue,  enlivened 
by  the  probability  of  being  killed. 

This  digression  is  meant  to  signify  that  I  never  joined  the 
single  men  and  double  Mantons  that  went  in  and  off  among 
Sir  Lionel  Garrett's  preserves.  I  used,  instead,  to  take  long 
walks  by  myself,  and  found,  like  virtue,  my  own  reward  in 
the  additional  health  and  strength  these  diurnal  exertions 
produced  me. 

One  morning  chance  threw  into  my  way  a  bonne  fortune, 
which  I  took  care  to  improve.  From  that  time  the  family  of 
a  Farmer  Sinclair  (one  of  Sir  Lionel's  tenants)  was  alarmed 
by  strange  and  supernatural  noises  ;  one  apartment  in  especial, 
occupied  by  a  female  member  of  the  household,  was  allowed, 
even -by  the  clerk  of  the  parish,  a  very  bold  man,  and  a  bit  of 
a  sceptic,  to  be  haunted  ;  the  windows  of  that  chamber  were 
wont  to  open  and  shut,  thin  airy  voices  confabulate  therein, 
and  dark  shapes  hover  thereout,  long  after  the  fair  occupant 
had,  with  the  rest  of  the  family,  retired  to  repose.  But  the 
most  unaccountable  thing  was  the  fatality  which  attended  me, 
and  seemed  to  mark  me  out  for  an  untimely  death.  /,  who 
had  so  carefully  kept  out  of  the  way  of  gunpowder  as  a  sports- 
man, very  narrowly  escaped  being  twice  shot  as  a  ghost. 
This  was  but  a  poor  reward  for  a  walk  more  than  a  mile  long, 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAM.  29 

in  nights  by  no  means  of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies  ; 
accordingly  I  resolved  to  "  give  up  the  ghost  "  in  earnest 
rather  than  in  metaphor,  and  to  pay  my  last  visit  and  adieus 
to  the  mansion  of  Farmer  Sinclair.  The  night  on  which  I 
executed  this  resolve  was  rather  memorable  in  my  future 
history. 

The  rain  had  fallen  so  heavily  during  the  day  as  to  render 
the  road  to  the  house  almost  impassable,  and  when  it  was 
time  to  leave  I  inquired,  with  very  considerable  emotion, 
whether  there  was  not  an  easier  way  to  return.  The  answer 
was  satisfactory,  and  my  last  nocturnal  visit  at  Farmer  Sin- 
clair's concluded. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"  Why  sleeps  he  not,  when  others  are  at  rest  ?  " — BYRON. 

ACCORDING  to  the  explanation  I  had  received,  the  road  I 
was  now  to  pursue  was  somewhat  longer,  but  much  better, 
than  that  which  I  generally  took.  It  was  to  lead  me  home 

through  the  churchyard  of  ,  the   same,  by-the-by,  which 

Lord  Vincent  had  particularized  in  his  anecdote  of  the  mys- 
terious stranger.  The  night  was  clear,  but  windy  ;  there  were 
a  few  light  clouds  passing  rapidly  over  the  moon,  which  was 
at  her  full,  and  shone  through  the  frosty  air  with  all  that  cold 
and  transparent  brightness  so  peculiar  to  our  northern  winters. 
I  walked  briskly  on  till  I  came  to  the  churchyard  ;  I  could 
not  then  help  pausing  (notwithstanding  my  total  deficiency  in 
all  romance)  to  look  for  a  few  moments  at  the  exceeding 
beauty  of  the  scene  around  me.  The  church  itself  was  ex- 
tremely old,  and  stood  alone  and  gray,  in  the  rude  simplicity 
of  the  earliest  form  of  gothic  architecture ;  two  large,  dark 
yew-trees  drooped  on  each  side  over  tombs,  which,  from  their 
size  and  decorations,  appeared  to  be  the  last  possession  of 
some  quondam  lords  of  the  soil.  To  the  left  the  ground  was 
skirted  by  a  thick  and  luxuriant  copse  of  evergreens,  in  the 
front  of  which  stood  one  tall,  naked  oak,  stern  and  leafless, 
a  very  token  of  desolation  and  decay  ;  there  were  but  few 
gravestones  scattered  about,  and  these  were,  for  the  most  part, 
hidden  by  the  long,  wild  grass  which  wreathed  and  climbed 
round  them.  Over  all,  the  blue  skies  and  still  moon  shed 
that  solemn  light,  the  effect  of  which,  either  on  the  scene  or 
the  feelings,  it  is  so  impossible  to  describe. 


30  PELHAM  J 

I  was  just  about  to  renew  my  walk,  when  a  tall,  dark  figure, 
wrapped  up  like  myself,  in  a  large  French  cloak,  passed  slowly 
along  from  the  other  side  of  the  church,  and  paused  by  the 
copse  I  have  before  mentioned.  I  was  shrouded  at  that  mo- 
ment from  his  sight  by  one  of  the  yew  trees  ;  he  stood  still  only 
for  a  few  moments  ;  he  then  flung  himself  upon  the  earth,  and 
sobbed  audibly,  even  at  the  spot  where  I  was  standing.  I  was 
in  doubt  whether  to  wait  longer  or  to  proceed ;  my  way  lay 
just  by  him,  and  it  might  be  dangerous  to  interrupt  so  sub- 
stantial an  apparition.  However,  my  curiosity  was  excited, 
and  my  feet  were  half  frozen,  two  cogent  reasons  for  proceed- 
ing ;  and,  to  say  truth,  I  was  never  very  much  frightened  by 
anything  dead  or  alive. 

Accordingly  I  left  my  obscurity,  and  walked  slowly  onwards. 
I  had  not  got  above  three  paces  before  the  figure  arose,  and 
stood  erect  and  motionless  before  me.  His  hat  had  fallen  off,  and 
the  moon  shone  full  upon  his  countenance  ;  it  was  not  the  wild 
expression  of  intense  anguish  which  dwelt  on  those  hueless  and 
sunken  features,  nor  their  quick  change  to  ferocity  and  defiance, 
as  his  eye  fell  upon  me,  which  made  me  start  back  and  feel  my 
heart  stand  still !  Notwithstanding  the  fearful  ravages  graven 
in  that  countenance,  once  so  brilliant  with  the  graces  of  boy- 
hood, I  recognized  at  one  glance  those  still  noble  and  striking 
features.  It  was  Reginald  Glanville  who  stood  before  me  ! 
I  recovered  myself  instantly  ;  I  threw  myself  towards  him,  and 
called  him  by  his  name.  He  turned  hastily  ;  but  I  would  not 
suffer  him  to  escape  ;  I  put  my  hand  upon  his  arm,  and  drew  him 
towards  me.  "  Glanville  !  "  I  exclaimed,  "  it  is  I !  it  is  your 
old — old  friend,  Henry  Pelham.  Good  Heavene  !  have  I  met 
you  at  last,  and  in  such  a  scene  ?  " 

Glanville  shook  me  from  him  in  an  instant,  covered  his  face 
with  his  hands,  and  sank  down  with  one  wild  cry,  which  went 
fearfully  through  that  still  place,  upon  the  spot  from  which  he 
had  but  just  risen.  I  knelt  beside  him  ;  I  took  his  hand  ;  I  spoke 
to  him  in  every  endearing  term  that  I  could  think  of  ;  and, 
roused  and  excited  as  my  feelings  were  by  so  strange  and  sud- 
den a  meeting,  I  felt  my  tears  involuntarily  falling  over  the 
hand  which  I  held  in  my  own.  Glanville  turned  ;  he  looked  at 
me  for  one  moment,  as  if  fully  to  recognize  me  ;  and  then, 
throwing  himself  in  my  arms,  wept  like  a  child. 

It  was  but  for  a  few  minutes  that  this  weakness  lasted  ;  he 
rose  suddenly — the  whole  expression  of  his  countenance  was 
changed  ;  the  tears  still  rolled  in  large  drops  down  his  cheeks, 
but  the  proud,  stern  character  which  the  features  had  assumed 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          31 

seemed  to  deny  the  feelings  which  that  feminine  weakness  had 
betrayed. 

"  Pelham,"  he  said,  "you  have  seen  me  thus  ;  I  had  hoped 
that  no  living  eye  would — this  is  the  last  time  in  which  I  shall 
indulge  this  folly.  God  bless  you  ;  we  shall  meet  again ;  and 
this  night  shall  then  seem  to  you  like  a  dream." 

I  would  have  answered,  but  he  turned  swiftly,  passed  in  one 
moment  through  the  copse,  and  in  the  next  had  disappeared. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

"  You  reach  a  chilling  chamber,  where  you  dread 
Damps." — CRABBE'S  Borough. 

I  COULD  not  sleep  the  whole  of  that  night,  and  the  next 
morning  I  set  off  early,  with  the  resolution  of  discovering  where 
Glanville  had  taken  up  his  abode  ;  it  was  evident  from  his 
having  been  so  frequently  seen  that  it  must  be  in  the  immediate 
neighborhood. 

I  went  first  to  Farmer  Sinclair's ;  they  had  often  remarked 
him,  but  could  give  me  no  other  information.  I  then  proceeded 
towards  the  coast ;  there  was  a  small  public-house  belonging  to 
Sir  Lionel  close  by  the  sea-shore  ;  never  had  I  seen  a  more 
bleak  and  dreary  prospect  than  that  which  stretched  for  miles 
around  this  miserable  cabin.  How  an  innkeeper  could  live 
there,  is  a  mystery  to  me  at  this  day ;  I  should  have  imagined 
it  a  spot  upon  which  anything  but  a  sea-gull  or  a  Scotchman 
would  have  starved. 

"  Just  the  sort  of  place,  however,"  thought  I,  "  to  hear  some- 
thing of  Glanville."  I  went  into  the  house  ;  I  inquired,  and 
heard  that  a  strange  gentleman  had  been  lodging  for  the  last 
two  or  three  weeks  at  a  cottage  about  a  mile  further  up  the 
coast.  Thither  I  bent  my  steps ;  and  after  having  met  two 
crows,  and  one  officer  on  the  preventive  service,  I  arrived 
safely  at  my  new  destination. 

It  was  a  house  a  little  better,  in  outward  appearance,  than 
the  wretched  hut  I  had  just  left,  for  I  observe  in  all  situations, 
and  in  all  houses,  that  "  the  public  "  is  not  too  well  served  ; 
but  the  situation  was  equally  lonely  and  desolate.  The  house 
itself,  which  belonged  to  an  individual  half-fisherman  and  half- 
smuggler,  stood  in  a  sort  of  bay,  between  two  tall,  rugged, 
black  cliffs.  Before  the  door  hung  various  nets  to  dry  beneath 


PELHAM 


32 

the  genial  warmth  of  a  winter's  sun  ;  and  a  broken  boat,  with 
its  keel  uppermost,  furnished  an  admirable  habitation  fora  hen 
and  her  family,  who  appeared  to  receive  en  pension  an  old 
clerico-bachelor-looking  raven.  I  cast  a  suspicious  glance  at 
the  last-mentioned  personage,  which  hopped  towards  me  with 
a  very  hostile  appearance,  and  entered  the  threshold  with  a 
more  rapid  step  in  consequence  of  sundry  apprehensions  of  a 
premeditated  assault. 

*'  I  understand,"  said  I  to  an  old,  dried,  brown  female,  who 
looked  like  a  resuscitated  red-herring,  "that  a  gentleman  is 
lodging  here." 

"  No,  sir,"  was  the  answer  ;  "  he  left  us  this  morning." 

The  reply  came  upon  me  like  a  shower-bath  ;  I  was  both 
chilled  and  stunned  by  so  unexpected  a  shock.  The  old  woman, 
on  my  renewing  my  inquiries,  took  me  upstairs  to  a  small, 
wretched  room^  to  which  the  damps  literally  clung.  In  one 
corner  was  a  flock-bed,  still  unmade,  and  opposite  to  it  a  three- 
legged  stool,  a  chair,  and  an  antique  carved  oak  table,  a  dona- 
tion, perhaps,  from  some  squire  in  the  neighborhood  ;  on  this 
last  were  scattered  fragments  of  writing-paper,  a  cracked  cup 
half-full  of  ink,  a  pen,  and  a  broken  ramrod.  As  I  mechanic- 
ally took  up  the  latter,  the  woman  said,  in  a  charming  patois, 
which  I  shall  translate,  since  I  cannot  do  justice  to  the  original : 
"  The  gentleman,  sir,  said  he  came  here  for  a  few  weeks  to 
shoot  ;  he  brought  a  gun,  a  large  dog,  and  a  small  portmanteau. 
He  stayed  nearly  a  month  ;  he  used  to  spend  all  the  mornings 
in  the  fens,  though  he  must  have  been  but  a  poor  shot,  for  he 
seldom  brought  home  anything  ;  and  we  fear,  sir,  that  he  was 
rather  out  of  his  mind,  for  he  used  to  go  out  alone  at  night, 
and  stay  sometimes  till  moxning.  However,  he  was  quite  quiet, 
and  behaved  to  us  like  a  gentleman  ;  so  it  was  no  business  of 
ours,  only  my  husband  does  think — 

"  Pray,"  interrupted  I,  "why  did  he  leave  you  so  suddenly  ? " 

"  Lord,  sir,  I  don't  know !  but  he  told  us  for  several  days 
past  that  he  should  not  stay  over  the  week,  and  so  we  were  not 
surprised  when  he  left  us  this  morning  at  seven  o'clock.  Poor 
gentleman,  my  heart  bled  for  him  when  I  saw  him  look  so  pale 
and  ill." 

And  here  I  did  see  the  good  woman's  eyes  fill  with  tears  : 
but  she  wiped  them  away,  and  took  advantage  of  the  additional 
persuasion  they  gave  to  her  natural  whine  to  say,  "  If,  sir,  you 
know  of  any  young  gentleman  who  likes  fen-shooting,  and 
wants  a  nice,  pretty,  quiet  apartment — " 

"I  will  certainly  recommend  this,"  said  I. 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          33 

"You  see  it  at  present,"  rejoined  the  landlady,  "quite  in  a 
litter  like  ;  but  it  is  really  a  sweet  place  in  summer." 

"  Charming,"  said  I,  with  a  cold  shiver,  hurrying  down  the 
stairs,  with  a  pain  in  my  ear,  and  the  rheumatism  in  my 
shoulder. 

"And  this,"  thought  I,  "was  Glanville's  residence  for  nearly 
a  month  !  I  wonder  he  did  not  exhale  into  a  vapor,  or  moisten 
into  a  green  damp." 

I  went  home  by  the  churchyard.  I  paused  on  the  spot  where 
I  had  last  seen  him.  A  small  gravestone  rose  above  the  mound 
of  earth  on  which  he  had  thrown  himself  ;  it  was  perfectly 
simple.  The  date  of  the  year  and  month  (which  showed  that 
many  weeks  had  not  elapsed  since  the  death  of  the  deceased), 
and  the  initials  G.  D.,  made  the  sole  inscription  on  the  stone. 
Beside  this  tomb  was  one  of  a  more  pompous  description,  to 
the  memory  of  a  Mrs.  Douglas,  which  had  with  the  simple 
tumulus  nothing  in  common,  unless  the  initial  letter  of  the  sur- 
name, corresponding  with  the  latter  initial  on  the  neighboring 
gravestone,  might  authorize  any  connection  between  them,  not 
supported  by  that  similitude  of  style  usually  found  in  the 
cenotaphs  of  the  same  family :  the  one,  indeed,  might  have 
covered  the  grave  of  a  humble  villager ;  the  other,  the  resting- 
place  of  the  lady  of  the  manor. 

1  found,  therefore,  no  clue  for  the  labyrinth  of  surmise  ;  and 
I  went  home  more  vexed  and  disappointed  with  my  day's  ex- 
pedition than  I  liked  to  acknowledge  to  myself. 

Lord  Vincent  met  me  in  the  hall.     "  Delighted  to  see  you," 

said  he  ;  "I  have  just  been  to (the  nearest  town),  in  order 

to  discover  what  sort  of  savages  abide  there.  Great  prepara- 
tions for  a  ball  ;  all  the  tallow  candles  in  the  town  are 
bespoken,  and  I  heard  a  most  uncivilized  riddle, 

1  Twang  short  and  sharp,  like  the  shrill  swallow's  cry.' 

The  one  milliner's  shop  was  full  of  fat  squiresses,  buying  mus- 
lin ammunition  to  make  the  ball  go  off ;  and  the  attics,  even  at 
four  o'clock,  were  thronged  with  rubicund  damsels,  who  were 
already,  as  Shakspeare  says  of  waves  in  a  storm, 

'  Curling  their  monstrous  heads.' " 


34 


PELHAM 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"  Jusqu'au  revoir  le  ciel  vous  tienne  tous  en  joie."  * — MoLitRE. 

I  WAS  now  pretty  well  tired  of  Garrett  Park.  Lady  Rose- 

ville  was  gone  to  H ,  where  I  also  had  an  invitation.  Lord 

Vincent  meditated  an  excursion  to  Paris.  Mr.  Davison  had 
already  departed.  Miss  Trafford  had  been  gone,  God  knows 
how  long,  and  I  was  not  at  all  disposed  to  be  left,  like  "  the 
last  rose  of  summer,"  in  single  blessedness  at  Garrett  Park. 
Vincent,  Wormwood,  and  myself  all  agreed  to  leave  on  the 
same  day. 

The  morning  of  our  departure  arrived.  We  sat  down  to 
breakfast  as  usual.  Lord  Vincent's  carriage  was  at  the  door  ; 
his  groom  was  walking  about  his  favorite  saddle-horse. 

"  A  beautiful  mare  that  is  of  yours,"  said  I,  carelessly  look- 
ing at  it,  and  reaching  across  the  table  to  help  myself  to  the 
pdtf  de  foie  gras. 

"  Mare  !  "  exclaimed  the  incorrigible  punster,  delighted  with 
my  mistake  :  "  I  thought  that  you  would  have  been  better  ac- 
quainted with  your  propria  qua  maribus." 

"  Humph !  "  said  Wormwood,  "  when  I  look  at  you  I  am  al- 
ways at  least  reminded  of  the  'as  in  prcesenti  ! ' ' 

Lord  Vincent  drew  up  and  looked  unutterable  anger.  Worm- 
wood went  on  with  his  dry  toast,  and  Lady  Roseville,  who  that 
morning  had,  for  a  wonder,  come  down  to  breakfast,  good- 
naturedly  took  off  the  bear.  Whether  or  not  his  ascetic  nature 
was  somewhat  modified  by  the  soft  smiles  and  softer  voice  of 
the  beautiful  Countess,  I  cannot  pretend  to  say ;  but  he  cer- 
tainly entered  into  a  conversation  with  her,  not  much  rougher 
than  that  of  a  less  gifted  individual  might  have  been.  They 
talked  of  literature,  Lord  Byron,  conversaziones,  and  Lydia 
White.f 

"  Miss  White,"  said  Lady  Roseville,  "  has  not  only  the  best 
command  of  language  herself,  but  she  gives  language  to  other 
people.  Dinner  parties,  usually  so  stupid,  are,  at  her  house, 
quite  delightful.  There,  I  have  actually  seen  English  people 
look  happy,  and  one  or  two  even  almost  natural." 

"Ah!"  said  Wormwood,  "that  is  indeed  rare.  With  us 
everything  is  assumption.  We  are  still  exactly  like  the 
English  suitor  to  Portia,  in  the  Merchant  of  Venice.  We  take 
our  doublet  from  one  country,  our  hose  from  another,  and  our 

*  Heaven  keep  you  merry  till  we  meet  again, 
t  Written  before  the  death  of  that  ladv. 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OP  A  GENTLEMAN.          35 

behavior  everywhere.  Fashion  with  us  is  like  the  man  in 
one  of  Le  Sage's  novels,  who  was  constantly  changing 
his  servants,  and  yet  had  but  one  suit  of  livery,  which 
every  newcomer,  whether  he  was  tall  or  short,  fat  or 
thin,  was  obliged  to  wear.  We  adopt  manners,  however 
incongruous  and  ill-suited  to  our  nature,  and  thus  we  always 
seem  awkward  and  constrained.  But  Lydia  White's  soirees  are 
indeed  agreeable.  I  remember  the  last  time  I  dined  there,  we 
were  six  in  number,  and  though  we  were  not  blessed  with  the 
company  of  Lord  Vincent,  the  conversation  was  without 'let  or 
flaw.'  Every  one,  even  S ,  said  good  things." 

"Indeed  !  "  cried  Lord  Vincent,  "and  pray,  Mr.  Wormwood, 
what  did  you  say?" 

"  Why,"  answered  the  poet,  glancing  with  a  significant  sneer 
over  Vincent's  somewhat  inelegant  person,  "I  thought  of  your 
lordship's  figure,  and  said — grace!" 

" Hem — hem  ! — '  Gratia  malorum  tarn  infida  est  quam  ipsi'  as 
Pliny  says,"  muttered  Lord  Vincent,  getting  up  hastily,  and 
buttoning  his  coat. 

I  took  the  opportunity  of  the  ensuing  pause  to  approach 
Lady  Roseville  and  whisper  my  adieus.  She  was  kind  and 
even  warm  to  me  in  returning  them  ;  and  pressed  me,  with 
something  marvellously  like  sincerity,  to  be  sure  to  come  and 
see  her  directly  she  returned  to  London.  I  soon  discharged 
the  duties  of  my  remaining  farewells,  and  in  less  than  half  an 
hour  was  more  than  a  mile  distant  from  Garrett  Park  and  its 
inhabitants.  I  can't  say  that  for  one  who,  like  myself,  is  fond 
of  being  made  a  great  deal  of,  there  is  anything  very  delightful 
in  those  visits  into  the  country.  It  may  be  all  well  enough  for 
married  people,  who,  from  the  mere  fact  of  being  married,  are 
always  entitled  to  certain  consideration,  put — for  instance — 
into  a  bed-room  a  little  larger  than  a  dog-kennel,  and  accom- 
modated with  a  looking-glass  that  does  not  distort  one's 
features  like  a  paralytic  stroke.  But  we  single  men  suffer  a 
plurality  of  evils  and  hardships  in  intrusting  ourselves  to  the 
casualties  of  rural  hospitality.  We  are  thrust  up  into  any  attic 
repository — exposed  to  the  mercy  of  rats,  and  the  incursions 
of  swallows.  Our  lavations  are  performed  in  a  cracked  basin, 
and  we  are  so  far  removed  from  human  assistance  that  our 
very  bells  sink  into  silence  before  they  reach  half-way  down 
the  stairs.  But  two  days  before  I  left  Garrett  Park  I  myself 
saw  an  enormous  mouse  run  away  with  my  shaving  soap,  with- 
out any  possible  means  of  resisting  the  aggression.  Oh  !  the 
hardships  of  a  single  man  are  beyond  conception  ;  and  what  is 


36  PELHAM  ' 

worse,  the  very  misfortune  of  being  single  deprives  one  of  all 
sympathy.  "  A  single  man  can  do  this,  and  a  single  man  ought 
to  do  that,  and  a  single  man  may  be  put  here,  and  a  single 
man  may  be  sent  there,"  are  maxims  that  I  have  been  in  the 
habit  of  hearing  constantly  inculcated  and  never  disputed 
during  my  whole  life ;  and  so,  from  our  fare  and  treatment 
being  coarse  in  all  matters,  they  have  at  last  grown  to  be  all 
•matters  in  course. 


CHAPTER  IX. 
"  Therefore  to  France." — Henry  IV. 

I  WAS  rejoiced  to  find  myself  again  in  London.  I  went  to 
my  father's  house  in  Grosvenor  Square.  All  the  family,  viz., 

he  and  my  mother,  were  down  at  H ;  and  despite  my 

aversion  to  the  country  I  thought  I  might  venture  as  far  as 

Lady 's  for  a  couple  of  days.  Accordingly  to  H I 

went.  That  is  really  a  noble  house — such  a  hall — such  a  gal- 
lery !  I  found  my  mother  in  the  drawing-room,  admiring  the 
picture  of  his  late  Majesty.  She  was  leaning  on  the  arm  of  a 
tall,  fair  young  man.  "  Henry,"  said  she  (introducing  me  to 
him),  "  do  you  remember  your  old  schoolfellow,  Lord  George 
Clinton  ?  " 

"  Perfectly,"  said  I  (though  I  remembered  nothing  about  him), 
and  we  shook  hands  in  the  most  cordial  manner  imaginable. 
By  the  way,  there  is  no  greater  bore  than  being  called  upon 
to  recollect  men  with  whom  one  had  been  at  school  some  ten 
years  back.  In  the  first  place,  if  they  were  not  in  one's  own 
set,  one  most  likely  scarcely  knew  them  to  speak  to ;.  and,  in 
the  second  place,  if  they  were  in  one's  own  set,  they  are  sure 
to  be  entirely  opposite  to  the  nature  we  have  since  acquired  ; 
for  I  scarcely  ever  knew  an  instance  of  the  companions  of 
one's  boyhood  being  agreeable  to  the  tastes  of  one's  man- 
hood— a  strong  proof  of  the  folly  of  people  who  send  their 
sons  to  Eton  and  Harrow  to  form  connections. 

Clinton  was  on  the  eve  of  setting  out  upon  his  travels.  His 
intention  was  to  stay  a  year  at  Paris,  and  he  was  full  of  the 
blissful  expectations  the  idea  of  that  city  had  conjured  up. 
We  remained  together  all  the  evening,  and  took  a  prodigious 
fancy  to  one  another.  Long  before  I  went  to  bed  he  had  per- 
fectly inoculated  me  with  his  own  ardor  for  Continental  ad- 
ventures ;  and,  indeed,  I  had  half  promised  to  accompany 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.  37 

him.  My  mother,  when  I  first  told  her  of  my  travelling  inten- 
tions, was  in  despair,  but  by  degrees  she  grew  reconciled  to 
the  idea. 

"  Your  health  will  improve  by  a  purer  air,"  said  she,  "  and 
your  pronunciation  of  French  is,  at  present,  anything  but  cor- 
rect. Take  care  of  yourself,  therefore,  my  dear  son,  and  pray 
lose  no  time  in  engaging  Coulon  as  your  mattre  de  danse. 

My  father  gave  me  his  blessing,  and  a  check  on  his  banker. 
Within  three  days  I  had  arranged  everything  with  Clinton, 
and,  on  the  fourth,  I  returned  with  him  to  London.  Thence 
we  set  off  to  Dover — embarked — dined,  for  the  first  time  in 
our  lives,  on  French  ground — were  astonished  to  find  so  little 
difference  between  the  two  countries,  and  still  more  so  at 
hearing  even  the  little  children  talk  French  so  well  * — pro- 
ceeded to  Abbeyville — there  poor  Clinton  fell  ill  ;  for  several 
days  we  were  delayed  in  that  abominable  town,  and  then 
Clinton,  by  the  advice  of  the  doctors,  returned  to  England. 
1  went  back  with  him  as  far  as  Dover,  and  then,  impatient  at 
my  loss  of  time,  took  no  rest,  night  or  day,  till  I  found  myself 
at  Paris. 

Young,  well  born,  tolerably  good-looking,  and  never  utterly 
destitute  of  money,  nor  grudging  whatever  enjoyment  it  could 
procure,  I  entered  Paris  with  the  ability  and  the  resolution  to 
make  the  best  of  those  beaux  jours  which  so  rapidly  glide  from 
our  possession. 


CHAPTER  X. 

"  Seest  thou  how  gayly  my  young  maister  goes  ?" — BISHOP  HALL'S  Satires. 
"  Qui  vit  sans  folie,  n'est  pas  si  sage  qu'il  croit."  f — LA  ROCHEFOUCAULT. 

I  LOST  no  time  in  presenting  my  letters  of  introduction,  and 
they  were  as  quickly  acknowledged  by  invitations  to  balls  and 
dinners.  Paris  was  full  to  excess,  and  of  a  better  description 
of  English  than  those  who  usually  overflow  that  reservoir  of 
the  world.  My  first  engagement  was  to  dine  with  Lord  and 
Lady  Bennington,  who  were  among  the  very  few  English  inti- 
mate in  the  best  French  houses. 

On  entering  Paris  I  had  resolved  to  set  up  "  a  character  "; 
for  I  was  always  of  an  ambitious  nature,  and  desirous  of  being 
distinguished  from  the  ordinary  herd.  After  various  cogita- 

*  Sec  Addison's  Travels  for  this  idea. 

t  Who  Ijves  without  folly  is  not  so  wise  as  he  thinks, 


38  PELHAM  ; 

tions  as  to  the  particular  one  I  should  assume,  I  thought  noth- 
ing appeared  more  likely  to  be  obnoxious  to  men,  and  therefore 
pleasing  to  women,  than  an  egregious  coxcomb :  accordingly 
I  arranged  my  hair  into  ringlets,  dressed  myself  with  singular 
plainness  and  simplicity  (a  low  person,  by  the  by,  would  have 
done  just  the  contrary),  and,  putting  on  an  air  of  exceeding 
languor,  made  my  maiden  appearance  at  Lord  Bennington's. 
The  party  was  small,  and  equally  divided  between  French  and 
English  :  the  former  had  been  all  emigrants,  and  the  conver- 
sation was  chiefly  in  our  own  tongue. 

I  was  placed,  at  dinner,  next  to  Miss  Paulding,  an  elderly 
young  lady,  of  some  notoriety  at  Paris,  very  clever,  very  talka- 
tive, and  very  conceited.  A  young,  pale,  ill-natured  looking 
man  sat  on  her  left  hand  ;  this  was  Mr.  Aberton. 

"  Dear  me  !  "  said  Miss  Paulding,  "  what  a  pretty  chain  that 
is  of  yours,  Mr.  Aberton." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Aberton,  "  I  know  it  must  be  pretty,  for  I 
got  it  at  Breguet's  with  the  watch."  (How  common  people 
always  buy  their  opinions  with  their  goods,  and  regulate  the 
height  of  the  former  by  the  mere  price  or  fashion  of  the  latter  !) 

"  Pray,  Mr.  Pelham,"  said  Miss  Paulding,  turning  to  me, 
"have  you  got  one  of  Breguet's  watches  yet?" 

"Watch  !  "  said  I :  "do  you  think  /could  ever  wear  a  watch  ? 
I  know  nothing  so  plebeian.  What  can  any  one,  but  a  man  of 
business,  who  has  nine  hours  for  his  counting-house  and  one 
for  his  dinner,  ever  possibly  want  to  know  the  time  for  ?  '  An 
assignation,'  you  will  say  :  true,  but — if  a  man  is  worth  having 
he  is  surely  worth  waiting  for  !  " 

Miss  Paulding  opened  her  eyes,  and  Mr.  Aberton  his  mouth. 
A  pretty  lively  French  woman  opposite  (Madame  d'Anville) 
laughed,  and  immediately  joined  in  our  conversation,  which, 
on  my  part,  was  during  the  whole  dinner  kept  up  exactly  in 
the  same  strain. 

Madame  d'Anville  was  delighted,  and  Miss  Paulding  aston- 
ished. Mr.  Aberton  muttered  to  a  fat,  foolish  Lord  Lus- 
combe,  "  What  a  damnation  puppy  ! "  And  every  one,  even 

to  old  Madame  de  G s,  seemed  to  consider  me  impertinent 

enough  to  become  the  rage  ! 

As  for  me,  I  was  perfectly  satisfied  with  the  effect  I  had  pro- 
duced, and  I  went  away  the  first,  in  order  to  give  the  men  an 
opportunity  of  abusing  me  ;  for  whenever  the  men  abuse,  the 
women,  to  support  alike  their  coquetry  and  the  conversation, 
think  themselves  called  upon  to  defend. 

The  next  day  \  rode  into  the  Champs  Elyse"es,     I  always 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.  39 

valued  myself  particularly  upon  my  riding,  and  my  horse  was 
both  the  most  fiery  and  the  most  beautiful  in  Paris.  The  first 
person  I  saw  was  Madame  d'Anville.  At  that  moment  I  was 
reining  in  my  horse,  and  conscious,  as  the  wind  waved  my  long 
curls,  that  I  was  looking  to  the  very  best  advantage,  I  made 
my  horse  bound  towards  her  carriage  (which  she  immediately 
stopped),  and  made  at  once  my  salutations  and  my  court. 

"  I  am  going,"  said  she,  "to  the  Duchess  D 's  this  even- 
ing— it  is  her  night — do  come." 

"I  don't  know  her,"  said  I. 

"  Tell  me  your  hotel,  and  I'll  send  you  an  invitation  before 
dinner,"  rejoined  Madame  d'Anville. 

"  I  lodge,"  said  I,  "  at  the  Hotel  de ,  Rue  de  Rivoli,  on 

the  second  floor  at  present ;  next  year,  I  suppose,  according 
to  the  usual  gradations  in  the  life  of  a  gar  {on,  I  shall  be  on  the 
third  :  for  here  the  purse  and  the  person  seem  to  be  playing 
at  see-saw — the  latter  rises  as  the  former  descends." 

We  went  on  conversing  for  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  in 
which  I  endeavored  to  make  the  pretty  Frenchwoman  believe 
that  all  the  good  opinion  I  possessed  of  myself  the  day  before, 
I  had  that  morning  entirely  transferred  to  her  account. 

As  I  rode  home  I  met  Mr.  Aberton,  with  three  or  four  other 
men  ;  with  that  glaring  good-breeding  so  peculiar  to  the  Eng- 
lish he  instantly  directed  their  eyes  towards  me  in  one  mingled 
and  concentrated  stare.  "  N'importe"  thought  I,  "  they  must 
be  devilish  clever  fellows  if  they  can  find  a  single  fault  either 
in  my  horse  or  myself." 


CHAPTER  XI. 

"  Lud  !  what  a  group  the  motley  scene  discloses, 
False  wit,  false  wives,  false  virgins,  and  false  spouses." 

—GOLDSMITH'S  Epilogue  on  the  Comedy  of  the  Sisters. 

MADAME  D'ANVILLE  kept  her  promise — the  invitation  was 
duly  sent,  and  accordingly,  at  half-past  ten,  to  the  Rue  d'Anjou 
I  drove. 

The  rooms  were  already  full.  Lord  Bennington  was  stand- 
ing by  the  door,  and  close  by  him,  looking  exceedingly 
distrait,  was  my  old  friend  Lord  Vincent.  They  both  came 
towards  me  at  the  same  moment.  "  Strive  not,"  thought  I, 
looking  at  the  stately  demeanor  of  the  one,  and  the  humorous 
expression  of  countenance  in  the  other — "  strive  not,  Tragedy 


40  PELHAM  ; 

nor  Comedy,  to  engross  a  Garrick."  I  spoke  first  to  Lord 
Bennington,  for  I  knew  he  would  be  the  sooner  despatched, 
and  then  for  the  next  quarter  of  an  hour  found  myself  over- 
flowed with  all  the  witticisms  poor  Lord  Vincent  had  for  days 
been  obliged  to  retain.  I  made  an  engagement  to  dine  with 
him  at  Very's  the  next  day,  and  then  glided  off  towards 
Madame  d'Anville. 

She  was  surrounded  with  men,  and  talking  to  each  with  that 
vivacity  which,  in  a  Frenchwoman,  is  so  graceful,  and  in  an 
Englishwoman  would  be  so  vulgar.  Though  her  eyes  were 
not  directed  towards  me,  she  saw  me  approach  with  that  in- 
stinctive perception  which  all  coquettes  possess,  and  suddenly 
altering  her  seat,  made  way  for  me  beside  her.  I  did  not  lose 
so  favorable  an  opportunity  of  gaining  her  good  graces,  and 
losing  those  of  all  the  male  animals  around  her.  I  sank  down 
on  the  vacant  chair  and  contrived,  with  the  most  unabashed 
effrontery,  and  yet  with  the  most  consummate  dexterity,  to 
make  everything  that  I  said  pleasing  to  her,  revolting  to  some 
one  of  her  attendants.  Wormwood  himself  could  not  have 
succeeded  better.  One  by  one  they  dropped  off,  and  we  were 
left  alone  among  the  crowd.  Then,  indeed,  I  changed  the 
whole  tone  of  my  conversation.  Sentiment  succeeded  to  satire, 
and  the  pretence  of  feeling  to  that  of  affectation.  In  short,  I 
was  so  resolved  to  please  that  I  could  scarcely  fail  to  succeed. 

In  this  main  object  of  the  evening  I  was  not,  however,  solely 
employed.  I  should  have  been  very  undeserving  of  that 
character  for  observation  which  I  flatter  myself  I  peculiarly 
deserve,  if  I  had  not,  during  the  three  hours  I  stayed  at 

Madame  D 's,  conned  over  every  person  remarkable  for 

anything,  from  rank  to  a.  riband.  The  Duchesse  herself  was  a 
fair,  pretty,  clever  woman,  with  manners  rather  English  than 
French.  She  was  leaning,  at  the  time  I  paid  my  respects  to 
her,  on  the  arm  of  an  Italian  count,  tolerably  well  known  at 

Paris.  Poor  O i!  I  hear  he  is  since  married.  He  did 

not  deserve  so  heavy  a  calamity  ! 

Sir  Henry  Millington  was  close  by  her,  carefully  packed  up 
in  his  coat  and  waistcoat.  Certainly  that  man  is  the  best 
padder  in  Europe. 

"Come  and  sit  by  me,  Millington,"  cried  old  Lady  Oldtown  ; 
"  I  have  a  good  story  to  tell  you  of  the  Due  de ." 

Sir  Henry  with  difficulty  turned  round  his  magnificent  head, 
and  muttered  out  some  unintelligible  excuse.  The  fact  was, 
that  poor  Sir  Henry  was  not  that  evening  made  to  sit  down — 
he  had  only  his  standing-up  coat  on  !  Lady  Oldtown — heaven 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          4! 

knows — is  easily  consoled.  She  supplied  the  place  of  the 
baronet  with  a  most  superbly  mustachioed  German. 

"  Who,"  said  I,  to  Madame  d'Anville,  "are  those  pretty  girls 
in  white,  talking  with  such  eagerness  to  Mr.  Aberton  and  Lord 
Luscombe  ?" 

"  What ! "  said  the  Frenchwoman,  "  have  you  been  ten  days 
in  Paris  and  not  been  introduced  to  the  Miss  Carltons  ?  Let 
me  tell  you  that  your  reputation  among  your  countrymen  at 
Paris  depends  solely  upon  their  verdict." 

"  And  upon  your  favor,"  added  I. 

"Ah,"  said  she,  "you  must  have  had  your  origin  in  France  ; 
you  have  something  about  you  almost  Parisian" 

"Pray,"  said  I  (after  having  duly  acknowledged  this  com- 
pliment, the  very  highest  that  a  Frenchwoman  can  bestow), 
"  what  did  you  really  and  candidly  think  of  our  countrymen 
during  your  residence  in  England  ?" 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  answered  Madame  d'Anville  ;  "  they  are 
brave,  honest,  generous,  mats  Us  sont  demi-barbares  !  "  * 


CHAPTER  XII. 

"  Pia  mater 

Plus  quam  se  sapere,  et  virtutibus  esse  priorem 
Vult,  et  ait  prope  vera."  f — HOR.  Sat. 

Vere  (y)  mihi  festus  atras 


Eximet  curas." — HOR.  Or. 

THE  next  morning  I  received  a  letter  from  my  mother. 
"  My  dear  Henry,"  began  my  affectionate  and  incomparable 
parent : 

"  MY  DEAR  HENRY  : 

"  You  have  now  fairly  entered  the  world,  and  though  at  your 
age  my  advice  may  be  but  little  followed,  my  experience  can- 
not altogether  be  useless.  I  shall,  therefore,  make  no  apology 
for  a  few  precepts,  which  I  trust  may  tend  to  make  you  a  wiser 
and  a  better  man. 

"  I  hope,  in  the  first  place,  that  you  have  left  your  letter  at 
the  ambassador's,  and  that  you  will  not  fail  to  go  there  as  often 

*  But  they  are  half-barbarians. 

t  With  sage  advice,  and  many  a  sober  truth. 
The  pious  mother  moulds  to  shape  the  youth. 

— HAWKE'S  Paraphrase. 

The  application  of  the  second  motto  rests  solely  upon  an  untranslatable  play  of  words. 


42  PELHAM  ; 

as  possible.  Pay  your  court  in  particular  to  Lady  — — .  She 
is  a  charming  person,  universally  popular,  and  one  of  the  very 
few  English  people  to  whom  one  may  safely  be  civil.  Apropos 
of  English  civility,  you  have,  I  hope,  by  this  time  discovered  that 
you  have  to  assume  a  very  different  manner  with  French  peo- 
ple from  that  with  our  own  countrymen  ;  with  us,  the  least 
appearance  of  feeling  or  enthusiasm  is  certain  to  be  ridiculed 
everywhere ;  but  in  France,  you  may  venture  to  seem  not 
quite  devoid  of  all  natural  sentiments  ;  indeed,  if  you  affect 
enthusiasm  they  will  give  you  credit  for  genius,  and  they  will 
place  all  the  qualities  of  the  heart  to  the  account  of  the  head. 
You  know  that  in  England,  if  you  seem  desirous  of  a  person's 
acquaintance,  you  are  sure  to  lose  it  ;  they  imagine  you  have 
some  design  upon  their  wives  or  their  dinners  ;  but  in  France 
you  can  never  lose  by  politeness  ;  nobody  will  call  your  civil- 
ity forwardness  and  pushing.  If  the  Princesse  de  T ,  and 

the  Duchesse  de  D ,  ask  you  to  their  houses  (which  indeed 

they  will,  directly  you  have  left  your  letters),  go  there  two  or 
three  times  a  week,  if  only  for  a  few  minutes  in  the  evening. 
It  is  very  hard  to  be  acquainted  with  great  French  people,  but 
when  you  are,  it  is  your  own  fault  if  you  are  not  intimate  with 
them. 

"Most  English  people  have  a  kind  of  diffidence  and  scruple 
at  calling  in  the  evening — this  is  perfectly  misplaced  ;  the 
French  are  never  ashamed  of  themselves,  like  us,  whose  per- 
sons, families,  and  houses  are  never  fit  to  be  seen,  unless  they 
are  dressed  out  for  a  party. 

"Don't  imagine  that  the  ease  of  French  manners  is  at  all  like 
what  we  call  ease  ;  you  must  not  lounge  on  your  chair — nor 
put  your  feet  upon  a  stool — nor  forget  yourself  for  one  single 
moment  when  you  are  talking  with  women. 

"  You  have  heard  a  great  deal  about  the  gallantries  of  the 
French  ladies,  but  remember  that  they  demand  infinitely 
greater  attention  than  English  women  do  ;  and  that  after  a 
month's  incessant  devotion  you  may  lose  everything  by  a  mo- 
ment's neglect. 

"  You  will  not,  my  dear  son,  misinterpret  these  hints.  I  sup- 
pose, of  course,  that  all  your  liaisons  are  Platonic. 

"  Your  father  is  laid  up  with  the  gout,  and  dreadfully  ill- 
tempered  and  peevish  ;  however,  I  keep  out  of  the  way  as 
much  as  possible.  I  dined  yesterday  at  Lady  Roseville's  :  she 
praised  you  very  much,  said  your  manners  were  particularly 
good,  and  that  no  one,  if  he  pleased,  could  be  at  once  so  bril- 
liantly original,  yet  so  completely  ban  ton.  Lord  Vincent  is,  I 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          4$ 

understand,  at  Paris  ;  though  very  tiresome  with  his  learning 
and  Latin,  he  is  exceedingly  clever  and  much  in  vogue ;  be 
sure  to  cultivate  his  acquaintance. 

"  If  you  are  ever  at  a  loss  as  to  the  individual  character  of  a 
person  you  wish  to  gain,  the  general  knowledge  of  human 
nature  will  teach  you  one  infallible  specific, — flattery  !  The 
quantity  and  quality  may  vary  according  to  the  exact  niceties 
of  art ;  but,  in  any  quantity  and  in  any  quality,  it  is  more  or 
less  acceptable,  and  therefore  certain  to  please.  Only  never  (or 
at  least  very  rarely)  flatter  when  other  people,  besides  the  one 
to  be  nattered,  are  by  ;  in  that  case  you  offend  the  rest,  and 
you  make  even  your  intended  dupe  ashamed  to  be  pleased. 

"  In  general,  weak  minds  think  only  of  others,  and  yet  seem 
only  occupied  with  themselves  ;  you,  on  the  contrary,  must  ap- 
pear wholly  engrossed  with  those  about  you,  and  yet  never  have  a 
single  idea  which  does  not  terminate  in  yourself  :  a  fool,  my 
dear  Henry,  flatters  himself — a  wise  man  flatters  the  fool. 

"  God  bless  you,  my  dear  child,  take  care  of  your  health — 
don't  forget  Coulon  ;  and  believe  me  your  most  affectionate 
mother,  F.  P." 

By  the  time  I  had  read  this  letter,  and  dressed  myself  for  the 
evening,  Vincent's  carriage  was  at  the  door.  I  hate  the  affec- 
tation of  keeping  people  waiting,  and  went  down  so  quickly 
that  I  met  his  facetious  lordship  on  the  stairs.  "  Devilish 
windy,"  said  I,  as  we  were  getting  in  the  carriage. 

"  Yes,"  said  Vincent  ;  "  but  the  moral  Horace  reminds  us 
of  our  remedies  as  well  as  our  misfortune — 

'  Jam  galeam  Pallas,  et  aegida, 
Currusque — parat ' — 

viz.  :  '  Providence,  that  prepares  the  gale,  gives  us  also  a  great 
coat  and  a  carriage.' " 

We  were  not  long  driving  to  the  Palais  Royal.  Ve*ry's  was 
crowded  to  excess  :  "  A  very  low  set !  "  said  Lord  Vincent 
(who,  being  half  a  liberal,  is,  of  course,  a  thorough  aristocrat), 
looking  round  at  the  various  English  who  occupied  the  apart- 
ment. 

There  was,  indeed,  a  motley  congregation  :  country  esquires  ; 
extracts  from  the  universities  ;  half-pay  officers  ;  city  clerks 
in  frogged  coats  and  mustachios  ;  two  or  three  of  a  better-look- 
ing description,  but  in  reality  half-swindlers,  half  gentlemen  : 
all,  in  short,  fit  specimens  of  that  wandering  tribe,  which 
spread  over  the  Continent  the  renown  and  the  ridicule  of  good 
old  England. 


44  PELHAM  I 

"  Garfon,  garfon"  cried  a  stout  gentleman,  who  made  one 
of  three  at  the  table  next  to  us,  "  Donnez-nous  une  sole f rite  pour 
un,  et  des  pommes  de  terre  pour  trois  !  " 

"  Humph  !  "  said  Lord  Vincent  ;  "  fine  ideas  of  English 
taste  these  garfons  must  entertain  ;  men  who  prefer  fried  soles 
and  potatoes  to  the  various  delicacies  they  can  command  here, 
might,  by  the  same  perversion  of  taste,  prefer  Bloomfield's 
poems  to  Byron's.  Delicate  taste  depends  solely  upon  the 
physical  construction  ;  and  a  man  who  has  it  not  in  cookery 
must  want  it  in  literature,  fried  sole  and  potatoes  !!  If  I 
had  written  a  volume  whose  merit  was  in  elegance,  I  would  not 
show  it  to  such  a  man  ! — but  he  might  be  an  admirable  critic 
upon  '  Cobbett's  Register,'  or  '  Every  Man  his  Own  Brewer.'  " 

"Excessively  true,"  said  I  ;  "what  shall  we  order?" 

"JD'abord,  des  huitres  d'Ostende"  said  Vincent;  "as  to  the 
rest,"  taking  hold  of  the  carte,  "  deliberare  utilia  mora  ufi- 
lissima  est."  * 

We  were  soon  engaged  in  all  the  pleasures  and  pains  of  a 
dinner. 

" Petimus"  said  Lord  Vincent,  helping  himself  to  some 
poulet a  I'Austerlitz, — " petimusbcneviverey — quodpetis,  hicest?  "  \ 

We  were  not,  however,  assured  of  that  fact  at  the  termina- 
tion of  dinner.  If  half  the  dishes  were  well  conceived  and 
better  executed,  the  other  half  were  proportionately  bad. 
Very  is,  indeed,  no  longer  the  prince  of  restaurateurs.  The 
low  English  who  have  flocked  thither  have  entirely  ruined  the 
place.  What  waiter — what  cook  can  possibly  respect  men 
who  take  no  soup,  and  begin  with  a  roti ;  who  know  neither 
what  is  good  nor  what  is  bad  ;  who  eat  rognons  at  dinner  in- 
stead of  at  breakfast,  and  fall  into  raptures  over  sauce  Robert 
and  pieds  de  cochon  j  who  cannot  tell,  at  the  first  taste,  whether 
the  Beaune  \spremiere  qualite",  or  the  fricassee  made  of  yester- 
day's chicken  ;  who  suffer  in  the  stomach  after  a  champignon, 
and  die  with  indigestion  of  a  truffle?  Oh,  English  people, 
English  people  !  why  can  you  not  stay  and  perish  of  apoplexy 
and  Yorkshire  pudding  at  home  ? 

By  the  time  we  had  drunk  our  coffee  it  was  considerably 
past  nine  o'clock,  and  Vincent  had  business  at  the  ambassa- 
dor's before  ten  ;  we  therefore  parted  for  the  night. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  Very's  ? "  said  I,  as  we  were  at  the 
door. 

"Why,"   replied  Vincent,   "when   I   recall  the  astonishing 

*To  deliberate  on  things  useful  is  the  most  useful  delay. 
t  We  seek  to  live  well — what  you  seek  is  here. 


Ok,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          45 

heat  of  the  place,  which  has  almost  sent  me  to  sleep  ;  the  ex- 
ceeding number  of  times  in  which  that  becasse  had  been 
re-roasted,  and  the  extortionate  length  of  our  bills,  I  say  of 
Very's,  what  Hamlet  said  of  the  world,  '  Weary,  stale,  and 
unprofitable  ! ' ' 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

"  I  would  fight  with  proad  swords,  and  sink  point  on  the  first  plood  drawn 
like  a  gentleman's" — The  Chronicles  of  the  Canongate, 

I  STROLLED  idly  along  the  Palais  Royal  (which  English 
people,  in  some  silly  proverb,  call  the  capital  of  Paris,  whereas 
no  Frenchman  of  any  rank,  nor  Frenchwoman  of  any  respecta- 
bility, is  ever  seen  in  its  promenades)  till,  being  somewhat 
curious  to  enter  some  of  the  smaller  cafe's,  I  went  into  one  of 
the  meanest  of  them,  took  up  a  Journal  des  Spectacles,  and 
called  for  some  lemonade.  At  the  next  table  to  me  sat  two  or 
three  Frenchman,  evidently  of  inferior  rank,  and  talking  very 
loudly  over  England  and  the  English.  Their  attention  was 
soon  fixed  upon  me. 

Have  you  ever  observed  that  if  people  are  disposed  to  think 
ill  of  you,  nothing  so  soon  determines  them  to  do  so  as  any  act 
of  yours,  which,  however  innocent  and  inoffensive,  differs 
from  their  ordinary  habits  and  customs  ?  No  sooner  had  my 
lemonade  made  its  appearance  than  I  perceived  an  increased 
sensation  among  my  neighbors  of  the  next  table.  In  the  first 
place,  lemonade  is  not  much  drunk,  as  you  may  suppose, 
among  the  French  in  winter ;  and,  in  the  second,  my  beverage 
had  an  appearance  of  ostentation,  from  being  one  of  the  dear- 
est articles  I  could  have  called  for.  Unhappily  I  dropped  my 
newspaper — it  fell  under  the  Frenchmen's  table  ;  instead  of 
calling  {\\Qgarfon,  I  was  foolish  enough  to  stoop  for  it  myself. 
It  was  exactly  under  the  feet  of  one  of  the  Frenchmen  ;  I  asked 
him,  with  the  greatest  civility,  to  move  :  he  made  no  reply.  I 
could  not,  for  the  life  of  me,  refrain  from  giving  him  a  slight, 
very  slight  push  ;  the  next  moment  he  moved  in  good  earnest ; 
the  whole  party  sprang  up  as  he  set  the  example.  The  offended 
leg  gave  three  terrific  stamps  upon  the  ground,  and  I  was 
immediately  assailed  by  a  whole  volley  of  unintelligible  abuse. 
At  that  time  I  was  very  little  accustomed  to  French  vehemence, 
and  perfectly  unable  to  reply  to  the  vituperations  I  received. 

Instead  of  answering  them,  I  therefore  deliberated  what  was 


46 

best  to  be  done.  If,  thought  I,  I  walk  away,  they  will  think 
me  a  coward,  and  insult  me  in  the  streets  ;  if  I  challenge  them, 
I  shall  have  to  fight  with  men  probably  no  better  than 
shopkeepers  ;  if  I  strike  this  most  noisy  amongst  them, 
he  may  be  silenced,  or  he  may  demand  satisfaction  :  if  the 
former,  well  and  good  ;  if  the  latter,  why  I  shall  have  a  better 
excuse  for  fighting  him  than  I  should  have  now. 

My  resolution  was  therefore  taken.  I  was  never  more  free 
from  passion  in  my  life,  and  it  was,  therefore,  with  the  utmost 
calmness  and  composure  that,  in  the  midst  of  my  antagonist's 
harangue,  I  raised  my  hand  and — quietly  knocked  him  down. 

He  rose  in  a  moment.  "  Sortons"  said  he,  in  a  low  tone, "  a 
Frenchman  never  forgives  a  blow  !  " 

At  that  moment,  an  Englishman,  who  had  been  sitting  un- 
noticed in  a  obscure  corner  of  the  cafe",  came  up  and  took  me 
aside. 

"Sir,"  said  he,  "don't  think  of  fighting  the  man;  he  is  a 
tradesman  in  the  Rue  St.  Honor/.  I  myself  have  seen  him 
behind  the  counter ;  remember  that  '  a  ram  may  kill  a 
butcher'  " 

"  Sir,"  I  replied,  "  I  thank  you  a  thousand  times  for  your 
information.  Fight,  however,  I  must,  and  I'll  give  you,  like 
the  Irishman,  my  reasons  afterwards  :  perhaps  you  will  be  my 
second." 

"  With  pleasure,"  said  the  Englishman  (a  Frenchman  would 
have  said,  "  with  pain  !  ") 

We  left  the  cafe  together.  My  countryman  asked  them  if  he 
should  go  to  the  gunsmith's  for  the  pistols. 

"Pistols!"  said  the  Frenchman's  second:  "we  will  only 
fight  with  swords." 

"  No,  no,"  said  my  new  friend.  "  '  On  ne prend  pas  le  lih)re 
au  tambourin.'  We  are  the  challenged,  and  therefore  have  the 
choice  of  weapons." 

Luckily  I  overheard  this  dispute,  and  called  to  my  second  : 
"•Swords  or  pistols,"  said  I ;  "  it  is  quite  the  same  to  me.  I  am 
not  bad  at  either,  only  do  make  haste." 

Swords,  then,  were  chosen,  and  soon  procured.  Frenchmen 
never  grow  cool  upon  their  quarrels  :  and  as  it  was  a  fine,  clear, 
starlight  night,  we  went  forthwith  to  the  Bois  de  Boulogne.  We 
fixed  our  ground  on  a  spot  tolerably  retired,  and,  I  should 
think,  pretty  often  frequented  for  the  same  purpose.  I  was 
exceedingly  confident,  for  I  knew  myself  to  have  few  equals  in 
the  art  of  fencing  ;  and  I  had  all  the  advantage  of  coolness, 
which  my  hero  was  a  great  deal  too  much  in  earnest  to  possess. 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          47 

We  joined  swords,  and  in  a  very  few  moments  I  discovered 
that  my  opponent's  life  was  at  my  disposal. 

"  C'est  bien"  thought  I ;  "  for  once  I'll  behave  handsomely." 

The  Frenchman  made  a  desperate  lunge.  I  struck  his  sword 
from  his  hand,  caught  it  instantly,  and,  presenting  it  to  him 
again,  said  : 

"  I  think  myself  peculiarly  fortunate  that  I  may  now  apolo- 
gize for  the  affront  I  have  put  upon  you.  Will  you  permit  my 
sincerest  apologies  to  suffice  ?  A  man  who  can  so  well  resent 
an  injury,  can  forgive  one." 

Was  there  ever  a  Frenchman  not  taken  by  a  fine  phrase  ? 
My  hero  received  the  sword  with  a  low  bow — the  tears  came 
into  his  eyes. 

"  Sir,"  said  he,  "  you  have  twice  conquered." 

We  left  the  spot  with  the  greatest  amity  and  affection,  and 
re-entered,  with  a  profusion  of  bows,  our  several  fiacres. 

"  Let  me,"  I  said,  when  I  found  myself  alone  with  my  sec- 
ond, "  let  me  thank  you  most  cordially  for  your  assistance  ;  and 
allow  me  to  cultivate  an  acquaintance  so  singularly  begun.  I 

lodge  at  the  Hotel  de Rue  de  Rivoli ;  my  name  is  Pelham. 

Yours  is — " 

"  Thornton,"  replied  my  countryman.  "  I  will  lose  no  time 
in  profiting  by  an  offer  of  acquaintance  which  does  me  so  much 
honor." 

With  these  and  various  other  fine  speeches  we  employed  the 
time  till  I  was  set  down  at  my  hotel ;  and  my  companion, 
drawing  his  cloak  round  him,  departed  on  foot,  to  fulfil  (he 
said,  with  a  mysterious  air)  a  certain  assignation  in  the  fau- 
bourg St.  Germain. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

"  Erat  homo  ingeniosus,  acutus,  acer,  et  qui  plurimum  et  salis  haberet  et 
fellis,  nee  candoris  minus."  * — PLINY. 

I  DO  not  know  a  more  difficult  character  to  describe  than 
Lord  Vincent's.  Did  I  imitate  certain  writers,  who  think  that 
the  whole  art  of  portraying  individual  character  is  to  seize  hold 
of  some  prominent  peculiarity,  and  to  introduce  this  distin- 
guishing trait  in  all  times  and  in  all  scenes,  the  difficulty  would 
be  removed.  I  should  only  have  to  present  to  the  reader  a 
man  whose  conversation  was  nothing  but  alternate  jest  and 

*  "  He  was  a  clever  and  able  man— acute,  sharp— with  abundance  of  wit  and  no  less  o/ 
candor." — COOKK. 


48  PELHAM  ; 

quotation — a  due  union  of  Yorick  and  Partridge.  This  would, 
however,  be  rendering  great  injustice  to  the  character  I  wish  to 
delineate.  There  were  times  when  Vincent  was  earnestly  en- 
grossed in  discussion,  in  which  a  jest  rarely  escaped  him,  and 
quotation  was  introduced  only  as  a  serious  illustration, 
not  as  a  humorous  peculiarity.  He  possessed  great  miscella- 
neous erudition,  and  a  memory  perfectly  surprising  for  its  fidelity 
and  extent.  He  was  a  severe  critic,  and  had  a  peculiar  art  of 
quoting  from  each  author  he  reviewed  some  part  that  particu- 
larly told  against  him.  Like  most  men,  if  in  the  theory  of 
philosophy  he  was  tolerably  rigid,  in  its  practice  he  was  more 
than  tolerably  loose.  By  his  tenets  you  would  have  considered 
him  a  very  Cato  for  stubbornness  and  sternness  ;  yet  was  he  a 
very  child  in  his  concession  to  the  whim  of  the  moment.  Fond 
of  meditation  and  research,  he  was  still  fonder  of  mirth  and 
amusement  ;  and  while  he  was  among  the  most  instructive,  he 
was  also  the  boonest  of  companions.  When  alone  with  me,  or  with 
men  whom  he  imagined  like  me,  his  pedantry  (for  more  or  less, 
he  always  was  pedantic)  took  only  a  jocular  tone ;  with  the 
savant  or  the  be  I  esprit  it  became  grave,  searching,  and  sarcastic. 
He  was  rather  a  contradictor  than  a  favorer  of  ordinary  opin- 
ions :  and  this,  perhaps,  led  him  not  unoften  into  paradox  :  yet 
was  there  much  soundness,  even  in  his  most  vehement  notions, 
and  the  strength  of  mind  which  made  him  think  only  for  him- 
self, was  visible  in  all  the  productions  it  created.  I  have 
hitherto  only  given  his  conversation  in  one  of  its  moods  ;  hence- 
forth I  shall  be  just  enough  occasionally  to  be  dull,  and  to 
present  it  sometimes  to  the  reader  in  a  graver  tone. 

Buried  deep  beneath  the  surface  of  his  character  was  a  hid- 
den, yet  a  restless,  ambition  :  but  this  was  perhaps,  at  present, 
a  secret  even  to  himself.  We  know  not  our  own  characters  till 
time  teaches  us  self-knowledge  :  if  we  are  wise,  we  may  thank 
ourselves  ;  if  we  are  great,  we  must  thank  fortune. 

It  was  this  insight  into  Vincent's  nature  which  drew  us 
closer  together.  I  recognized  in  the  man,  who  as  yet  was 
playing  a  part,  a  resemblance  to  myself,  while  he,  perhaps,  saw 
at  times  that  I  was  somewhat  better  than  the  voluptuary,  and 
somewhat  wiser  than  the  coxcomb,  which  were  all  that  at 
present  it  suited  me  to  appear. 

In  person  Vincent  was  short,  and  ungracefully  formed,  but 
his  countenance  was  singularly  fine.  His  eyes  were  dark, 
bright,  and  penetrating,  and  his  forehead  (high  and  thoughtful) 
corrected  the  playful  smile  of  his  mouth,  which  might  other- 
wise have  given  to  his  features  too  great  an  expression  of  levity^ 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          49 

He  was  not  positively  ill  dressed,  yet  he  paid  no  attention  to 
any  external  art  except  cleanliness.  His  usual  garb  was  a 
brown  coat,  much  too  large  for  him,  a  colored  neckcloth,  a 
spotted  waistcoat,  gray  trousers,  and  short  gaiters  :  add  to 
these  gloves  of  most  unsullied  doeskin,  and  a  curiously  thick 
cane,  and  the  portrait  is  complete. 

In  manners  he  was  civil  or  rude,  familiar  or  distant,  just  as 
the  whim  seized  him  ;  never  was  there  any  address  less  com- 
mon, and  less  artificial.  What  a  rare  gift,  by  the  by,  is  that  of 
manners  !  How  difficult  to  define — how  much  more  difficult 
to  impart !  Better  for  a  man  to  possess  them  than  wealth, 
beauty,  or  even  talent,  if  it  fall  short  of  genius — they  will  more 
than  supply  all.  He  who  enjoys  their  advantages  in  the  highest 
degree  ;  viz.,  he  who  can  please,  penetrate,  persuade,  as  the 
object  may  require,  possesses  the  subtlest  secret  of  the  diplo- 
matist and  the  statesman,  and  wants  nothing  but  luck  and 
opportunity  to  become  "great" 


CHAPTER  XV. 

"  Le  plaisir  de  la  socie'te  entre  les  amis  se  cultive  parune  ressemblance  de 
gout  sur  ce  qui  regarde  les  moeurs,  et  par  quelque  difference  d'opinions  sur 
les  sciences  ;  par  la  ou  Ton  s'affermit  dans  ses  sentiments,  ou  Ton  s'exerce  et 
1'on  s'instruit  par  la  dispute."  * — LA  BRUYERE. 

THERE  was  a  party  at  Monsieur  de  V e's,  to  which 

Vincent  and  myself  were  the  only  Englishmen  invited  :  accord- 
ingly, as  the  Hotel  de  V.  was  in  the  same  street  as  my  hotel, 
we  dined  together  at  my  rooms,  and  walked  from  thence  to  the 
minister's  house. 

The  party  was  as  stiff  and  formal  as  such  assemblies  invaria- 
bly are,  and  we  were  both  delighted  when  we  espied  Monsieur 
d'A ,  a  man  of  much  conversational  talent,  and  some  celeb- 
rity as  an  ultra  writer,  forming  a  little  group  in  one  corner  of 
the  room. 

We  took  advantage  of  our  acquaintance  with  the  urbane 
Frenchman  to  join  his  party  ;  the  conversation  turned  almost 
entirely  on  literary  subjects.  Allusion  being  made  toSchlegel's 
History  of  Literature,  and  the  severity  with  which  he  speaks 
of  Helvetius,  and  the  philosophers  of  his  school,  we  began  to 

*  The  pleasure  of  society  amongst  friends  is  cultivated  by  resemblance  of  taste  as  to 
manners,  but  some  difference  of  opinion  as  to  mental  acquisitions.  Thus  while  it  is  con- 
Armed  by  congeniality  of  sentiments,  it  gains  exercise  and  instruction  by  intellectual 
discus$ion, 


50  PELHAM  J 

discuss  what  harm  the  free  thinkers  in  philosophy  had 
effected. 

"  For  my  part,"  said  Vincent,  "  I  am  not  able  to  divine  why 
we  are  supposed,  in  works  where  there  is  much  truth  and  little 
falsehood,  much  good  and  a  little  evil,  to  see  only  the  evil  and 
the  falsehood,  to  the  utter  exclusion  of  the  truth  and  the  good. 
All  men  whose  minds  are  sufficiently  laborious  or  acute  to  love 
the  reading  of  metaphysical  inquiries,  will  by  the  same  labor 
and  acuteness  separate  the  chaff  from  the  corn — the  false  from 
the  true.  It  is  the  young,  the  light,  the  superficial  who  are 
easily  misled  by  error  and  incapable  of  discerning  its  fallacy  ; 
but  tell  me  if  it  is  the  light,  the  young,  the  superficial,  who  are 
in  the  habit  of  reading  the  abstruse  and  subtle  speculations  of 
the  philosopher.  No,  no  !  believe  me  that  it  is  the  very  studies 
Monsieur  Schlegel  recommends  which  do  harm  to  morality  and 
virtue  ;  it  is  the  study  of  literature  itself,  the  play,  the  poem, 
the  novel,  which  all  minds,  however  frivolous,  can  enjoy  and 
understand,  that  constitute  the  real  foes  of  religion  and  moral 
improvement." 

"Ma  foi"  cried  Monsieur  de  G.  (who  was  a  little  writer, 
and  a  great  reader,  of  romances),  "why,  you  would  not  deprive 
us  of  the  politer  literature  ;  you  would  not  bid  us  shut  up  our 
novels,  and  burn  our  theatres  !  " 

"Certainly  not  !"  replied  Vincent ;  "and  it  is  in  this  par- 
ticular that  I  differ  from  certain  modern  philosophers  of  our 
own  country,  for  whom,  for  the  most  part,  I  entertain  the 
highest  veneration.  I  would  not  deprive  life  of  a  single  grace, 
or  a  single  enjoyment,  but  I  would  counteract  whatever  is  per- 
nicious in  whatever  is  elegant :  if  among  my  flowers  there  is  a 
snake,  I  would  not  root  up  my  flowers,  I  would  kill  the  snake. 
Thus,  who  are  they  that  derive  from  fiction  and  literature  a 
prejudicial  effect?  We  have  seen  already — the  light  and 
superficial  ?  But  who  are  they  that  derive  profit  from  them  ? — 
they  who  enjoy  well  regulated  and  discerning  minds  ;  who 
pleasure? — all  mankind!  Would  it  not  therefore  be  better, 
instead  of  depriving  some  of  profit,  and  all  of  pleasure,  by 
banishing  poetry  and  fiction  from  our  Utopia,  to  correct  the 
minds  which  find  evil,  where,  if  they  were  properly  instructed, 
they  would  find  good  ?  Whether  we  agree  with  Helvetius,  that 
all  men  are  born  with  an  equal  capacity  of  improvement,  or 
merely  go  the  length  with  all  other  metaphysicians,  that  educa- 
tion can  improve  the  human  mind  to  an  extent  yet  incalculable, 
it  must  be  quite  clear,  that  we  can  give  sound  views,  instead 
of  fallacies,  and  make  common  truths  as  easy  to  discern  an<J 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.  5! 

adopt  as  common  errors.  But  if  we  effect  this,  which  we  all 
allow  is  so  easy,  with  our  children  ;  if  we  strengthen  their 
minds,  instead  of  weakening  them,  and  clear  their  vision,  rather 
than  confuse  it,  from  that  moment  we  remove  the  prejudicial 
effects  of  fiction,  and  just  as  we  have  taught  them  to  use  a 
knife  without  cutting  their  fingers,  we  teach  them  to  make  use 
of  fiction  without  perverting  it  to  their  prejudice.  What 

philosopher  was  ever  hurt  by  reading  the  novels  of  L ,  or 

seeing  the  comedies  of  Moliere  ?  You  understand  me,  then, 
Monsieur  de  G.,  I  do,  it  is  true,  think  that  polite  literature  (as 
it  is  termed)  is  prejudicial  to  the  superficial,  but,  for  that 
reason,  I  would  not  do  away  with  the  literature,  I  would  do 
away  with  the  superficial." 

"  I  deny,"  said  M.  d'A ,  "  that  this  is  so  easy  a  task — you 

cannot  make  all  men  wise." 

"  No,"  replied  Vincent ;  "  but  you  can  all  children,  at  least 
to  a  certain  extent.  Since  you  cannot  deny  the  prodigious 
effects  of  education,  you  must  allow  that  they  will  at  least  give 
common-sense  ;  for  if  they  cannot  do  this,  they  can  do  nothing. 
Now  common-sense  is  all  that  is  necessary  to  distinguish  what 
is  good  and  evil,  whether  it  be  in  life  or  in  books ;  but  then 
your  education  must  not  be  that  of  public  teaching  and  private 
fooling ;  you  must  not  counteract  the  effects  of  common-sense 
by  instilling  prejudice,  or  encouraging  weakness  ;  your  edu- 
cation may  not  be  carried  to  the  utmost  goal,  but  as  far  as  it 
does  go,  you  must  see  that  the  road  is  clear.  Now,  for 
instance,  with  regard  to  fiction,  you  must  not  first,  as  is  done 
in  all  modern  education,  admit  the  disease,  and  then  dose 
with  warm  water  to  expel  it  :  you  must  not  put  fiction  into 
your  child's  hands,  and  not  give  him  a  single  principle  to  guide 
his  judgment  respecting  it  till  his  mind  has  got  wedded  to  the 
poison,  and  too  weak,  by  its  long  use,  to  digest  the  antidote. 
No  ;  first  fortify  his  intellect  by  reason,  and  you  may  then 
please  his  fancy  by  fiction.  Do  not  excite  his  imagination 
with  love  and  glory,  till  you  can  instruct  his  judgment  as  to 
what  love  and  glory  are.  Teach  him,  in  short,  to  reflect, 
before  you  permit  him  full  indulgence  to  imagine" 

Here  there  was  a  pause.     Monsieur  d'A looked  very 

ill-pleased,  and  poor  Monsieur  de  G thought  that  some- 
how or  other  his  romance  writing  was  called  into  question.  In 
order  to  soothe  them,  I  introduced  some  subject  which  per- 
mitted a  little  national  flattery  ;  the  conversation  then  turned 
insensibly  on  the  character  of  the  French  people. 
"  Never,"  said  Vincent,  "  has  there  been  a  character  more 


52  PELHAM  ; 

often  described — never  one  less  understood.  You  have  been 
termed  superficial.  I  think,  of  all  people,  that  you  least 
deserve  the  accusation.  With  regard  to  the  few,  your  philoso- 
phers, your  mathematicians,  your  men  of  science,  are  consulted 
by  those  of  other  nations,  as  some  of  their  profoundest  author- 
ities. With  regard  to  the  many,  the  charge  is  still  more  un- 
founded. Compare  your  mob,  whether  of  gentlemen  or 
plebeians,  to  those  of  Germany,  Italy — even  England — and  I 
own,  in  spite  of  my  national  prepossessions,  that  the  compar- 
ison is  infinitely  in  your  favor.  The  country  gentleman,  the 
lawyer,  the  petit  maitre  of  England,  are  proverbially  inane  and 
ill-informed.  With  you  the  classes  of  society  that  answer  to 
those  respective  grades  have  much  information  in  literature, 
and  often  not  a  little  in  science.  In  like  manner,  your  trades- 
men, and  your  servants,  are  of  better  cultivated  and  less  prej- 
udiced minds  than  those  ranks  in  England.  The  fact  is,  that 
all  with  you  pretend  to  be  savans,  and  this  is  the  chief  reason 
why  you  have  been  censured  as  shallow.  We  see  your  fine 
gentleman,  or  your  petit  bourgeois,  give  himself  the  airs  of  a 
critic  or  a  philosopher ;  and  because  he  is  neither  a  Scaliger 
nor  a  Newton  we  forget  that  he  is  only  the  bourgeois  or  the  petit 
maitre,  and  brand  all  your  philosophers  and  critics  with  the 
censure  of  superficiality,  which  this  shallow  individual  of  a 
shallow  order  may  justly  have  deserved.  We,  the  English,  it 
is  true,  do  not  expose  ourselves  thus  :  our  dandies,  our  trades- 
men, do  not  vent  second-rate  philosophy  "on  the  human  mind, 
nor  on  les  beaux  arts :  but  why  is  this  ?  Not  because  they  are 
better  informed  than  their  correspondent  ciphers  in  France, 
but  because  they  are  much  worse  informed  ;  not  because  they 
can  say  a  great  deal  more  on  the  subject,  but  because  they  can 
say  nothing  at  all." 

"  You  do  us  more  than  justice,"  said  Mons.  d'A ,  "in 

this  instance ;  are  you  disposed  to  do  us  justice  in  another? 
It  is  a  favorite  propensity  of  your  countrymen  to  accuse  us  of 
heartlessness  and  want  of  feeling.  Think  you  that  this  ac- 
cusation is  deserved  ? " 

"  By  no  means,"  replied  Vincent.  "The  same  cause  that 
brought  on  you  the  erroneous  censure  we  have  before  men- 
tioned, appears  to  me  also  to  have  created  this  ;  viz.,  a  sort  of 
Palais  Royal  vanity,  common  to  all  your  nation,  which  induces 
you  to  make  as  much  display  at  the  shop  window  as  possible. 
You  show  great  cordiality,  and  even  enthusiasm,  to  strangers ; 
you  turn  your  back  on  them — you  forget  them.  'How  heart- 
less ! '  cry  we.  Not  at  all !  The  English  show  no  cordiality, 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          53 

no  enthusiasm  to  strangers,  it  is  true :  but  they  equally  turn 
their  backs  on  them,  and  equally  forget  them  !  The  only  re- 
spect, therefore,  in  which  they  differ  from  you,  is  the  previous 
kindness  :  now  if  we  are  to  receive  strangers,  I  can  really  see 
no  reason  why  we  are  not  to  be  as  civil  to  them  as  possible ; 
and  so  far  from  imputing  the  desire  to  please  them  to  a  bad 
heart,  I  think  it  a  thousand  times  more  amiable  and  benevolent 
than  telling  them  a  VAnglaise,  by  your  morosity  and  reserve, 
that  you  do  not  care  a  pin  what  becomes  of  them.  If  I  am 
only  to  walk  a  mile  with  a  man,  why  should  I  not  make  that 
mile  as  pleasant  to  him  as  I  can  :  or  why,  above  all,  if  I  choose 
to  be  sulky,  and  tell  him  to  go  and  be  d — d,  am  I  to  swell  out  my 
chest,  color  with  conscious  virtue,  and  cry,  See  what  a  good 

heart  I  have  ?  *  Ah,  Monsieur  d'A ,  since  benevolence  is 

inseparable  from  all  morality,  it  must  be  clear  that  there  is  a 
benevolence  in  little  things  as  well  as  in  great,  and  that  he  who 
strives  to  make  his  fellow-creatures  happy,  though  only  for  an 
instant,  is  a  much  better  man  than  he  who  is  indifferent  to,  or 
(what  is  worse)  despises  it.  Nor  do  I,  to  say  truth,  see  that 
kindness  to  an  acquaintance  is  at  all  destructive  to  sincerity  to 
a  friend  ;  on  the  contrary,  I  have  yet  to  learn  that  you  are  (ac- 
cording to  the  customs  of  your  country)  worse  friends,  worse 
husbands,  or  worse  fathers  than  we  are  !  " 

"  What  !  "  cried  I,  "  you  forget  yourself,  Vincent.  How  can 
the  private  virtues  be  cultivated  without  a  coal  fire  ?  Is  not 
domestic  affection  a  synonymous  term  with  domestic  hearth  ? 
and  where  do  you  find  either,  except  in  honest  old  England  ?" 

"  True,"  replied  Vincent ;  "and  it  is  certainly  impossible  for 
a  father  and  his  family  to  be  as  fond  of  each  other  on  a  bright 
day  in  the  Tuileries,  or  at  Versailles,  with  music  and  dancing, 
and  fresh  air,  as  they  would  be  in  a  back  parlor,  by  a  smoky 
hearth,  occupied  entirely  by  le  bon  ptre,  et  la  bonne  niere  ;  while 
the  poor  little  children  sit  at  the  other  end  of  the  table,  whis- 
pering and  shivering,  debarred  the  vent  of  all  natural  spirits, 
for  fear  of  making  a  noise  :  and  strangely  uniting  the  idea  of 
the  domestic  hearth  with  that  of  a  hobgoblin,  and  the  associa- 
tion of  dear  papa  with  that  of  a  birch  rod." 

We  all  laughed  at  this  reply,  and  Monsieur  d'A ,  rising 

to  depart,  said,  "  Well,  well,  milord,  your  countrymen  are  great 
generalizers  in  philosophy ;  they  reduce  human  actions  to  two 
grand  touchstones.  All  hilarity  they  consider  the  sign  of  a 
shallow  mind  ;  and  all  kindness  the  token  of  a  false  heart." 

*  Mr.  Pelham,  it  will  be  remembered,  has  prevised  the  reader,  that  Lord  Vincent  w^ 
somewhat  addicted  to  paradox.  His  opinions  on  the  French  character  are  t»  be  taken  wi» 
»  certain  reserve. — Ant/tor. 


PELHAM 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

.  .  .  .   "  Quis  sapiens  bono 
Confidat  fragili  ?  "  * — SENECA. 

"  Grammatici  certant,  et  adhuc  sub  judice  lis  est."f — HOR. 

WHEN  I  first  went  to  Paris  I  took  a  French  master  to  per- 
fect me  in  the  Parisian  pronunciation.  This  "  Haberdasher 
of  pronouns"  was  a  person  of  the  name  of  Margot.  He  was  a 
tall,  solemn  man,  with  a  face  of  the  most  imperturbable  gravity. 
He  would  have  been  inestimable  as  an  undertaker.  His  hair 
was  a  pale  yellow  ;  you  would  have  thought  it  had  caught  a 
bilious  complaint  from  his  complexion  ;  the  latter  was,  indeed, 
of  so  sombre  a  saffron,  that  it  looked  as  if  ten  livers  had  been 
forced  into  a  jaundice,  in  order  to  supply  its  color.  His  fore- 
head was  high,  bald,  and  very  narrow.  His  cheekbones  were 
extremely  prominent,  and  his  cheeks  so  thin,  that  they  seemed 
happier  than  Pyramus  and  Thisbe,  and  kissed  each  other  in- 
side without  any  separation  or  division.  His  face  was  as  sharp 
and  almost  as  long  as  an  inverted  pyramid,  and  was  garnished 
on  either  side  by  a  miserable  half-starved  whisker,  which 
seemed  scarcely  able  to  maintain  itself  amidst  the  general 
symptoms  of  atrophy  and  decay.  This  charming  countenance 
was  supported  by  a  figure  so  long,  so  straight,  so  shadowy,  that 
you  might  have  taken  it  for  the  monument  in  a  consump- 
tion ! 

But  the  chief  characteristic  of  the  man  was  the  utter  and 
wonderful  gravity  I  have  before  spoken  of.  You  could  no 
more  have  coaxed  a  smile  out  of  his  countenance  than  you 
could  out  of  the  poker  ;  and  yet  Monsieur  Margot  was  by  no 
means  a  melancholy  man.  He  loved  his  joke,  and  his  wine, 
and  his  dinner,  just  as  much  as  if  he  had  been  of  a  fatter  frame  ; 
and  it  was  a  fine  specimen  of  the  practical  antithesis,  to  hear  a 
good  story,  or  a  jovial  expression,  leap  friskily  out  of  that  long, 
curved  mouth  ;  it  was  at  once  a  paradox  and  a  bathos — it  was 
the  mouse  coming  out  of  its  hole  in  Ely  Cathedral. 

I  said  that  this  gravity  was  M.  Margot's  most  especial  char- 
acteristic. I  forgot  ;  he  had  two  others  equally  remarkable  ; 
the  one  was  an  ardent  admiration  for  the  chivalrous,  the  other 
an  ardent  admiration  for  himself.  Both  of  these  are  traits 

*  What  wise  man  conficies  in  the  fragile  ? 
t  Grammarians  dispute,  and  the  matter  is  still  under  consideration  of  the  judge. 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          55 

common  enough  in  a  Frenchman,  but  in  Monsieur  Margot  their 
excesses  rendered  them  uncommon.  He  was  a  most  ultra  spec- 
imen of  le  chevalier  amoureux — a  mixture  of  Don  Quixote  and 
the  Due  de  Lauzun.  Whenever  he  spoke  of  the  present  tense, 
even  en  professeur,  he  always  gave  a  sigh  to  the  preterite,  and 
an  anecdote  of  Bayard  ;  whenever  he  conjugated  a  verb,  he 
paused  to  tell  me  that  the  favorite  one  of  his  female  pupils  was 
je  faime. 

In  short,  he  had  tales  of  his  own  good  fortune,  and  of  other 
people's  brave  exploits,  which,  without  much  exaggeration, 
were  almost  as  long,  and  had  perhaps  as  little  substance,  as  him- 
self ;  but  the  former  was  his  favorite  topic  :  to  hear  him,  one 
would  have  imagined  that  his  face,  in  borrowing  the  sharpness 
of  the  needle,  had  borrowed  also  its  attraction  ;  and  then  the 
prettiness  of  Monsieur  Margot's  modesty  ! 

"It  is  very  extraordinary,"  said  he,  "very  extraordinary,  for 
I  have  no  time  to  give  myself  up  to  those  affairs  :  it  is  not, 
Monsieur,  as  if  I  had  your  leisure  to  employ  all  the  little  pre- 
liminary arts  of  creating  la  belle  passion.  Non,  Monsieur,  I  go 
to  church,  to  the  play,  to  the  Tuileries,  for  a  brief  relaxation — 
and  me  voild  partout  accable"  with  my  good  fortune.  I  am  not 
handsome,  Monsieur,  at  least  not  very  ;  it  is  true,  that  I  have 
expression,  a  certain  air  noble  (my  first  cousin,  Monsieur,  is  the 
Chevalier  de  Margot),  and  above  all,  soul  in  my  physiognomy ; 
the  women  love  soul,  Monsieur — something  intellectual  and 
spiritual  always  attracts  them  ;  yet  my  success  certainly  is 
singular." 

"Bah!  Monsieur"  replied  I :  "  withdignity,  expression,  and 
soul,  how  could  the  heart  of  any  Frenchwoman  resist  you  ? 
No,  you  do  yourself  injustice.  It  was  said  of  Caesar,  that  he 
was  great  without  an  effort ;  much  more,  then,  may  Monsieur 
Margot  be  happy  without  an  exertion." 

"  Ah,  Monsieur !  "  rejoined  the  Frenchman,  still  looking 

"  As  weak,  as  earnest,  and  as  gravely  out 
As  sober  Lanesbro'  dancing  with  the  gout." 

"  Ah,  Monsieur,  there  is  a  depth  and  truth  in  your  remarks 
worthy  of  Montaigne.  As  it  is  impossible  to  account  for  the 
caprices  of  women,  so  it  is  impossible  for  ourselves  to  analyze 
the  merit  they  discover  in  us;  but,  Monsieur,  hear  me — at  the 
house  where  I  lodge  there  is  an  English  lady  en  pension.  Eh 
bien,  Monsieur,  you  guess  the  rest ;  she  has  taken  a  caprice  for 
me,  and  this  very  night  she  will  admit  me  to  her  apartment. 
She  is  very  handsome. — Ah  qu'elle  est  belle  !  une  jolie  petite 


56  PELHAM  ; 

louche,  une  denture  tblouissante,  un  nez  tout  a  fait  grec,  in  fine, 
quite  a  bouton  de  rose." 

I  expressed  my  envy  at  Monsieur  Margot's  good  fortune, 
and  when  he  had  sufficiently  dilated  upon  it,  he  withdrew. 
Shortly  afterwards  Vincent  entered  :  "  I  have  a  dinner  invita- 
tion for  both  of  us  to-day,"  said  he  ;  "  you  will  come  ?" 

"  Most  certainly,"  replied  I ;  "  but  who  is  the  person  we  are 
to  honor?" 

"  A  Madame  Laurent,"  replied  Vincent ;  one  of  those  ladies 
only  found  at  Paris,  who  live  upon  anything  rather  than  their 
income.  She  keeps  a  tolerable  table,  haunted  with  Poles,  Rus- 
sians, Austrians,  and  idle  Frenchmen,  peregrina  gentis  amxnum 
hospitium.  As  yet  she  has  not  the  happiness  to  be  acquainted 
with  any  Englishmen  (though  she  boards  one  of  our  country- 
women) and  (as  she  is  desirous  of  making  her  fortune  as  soon  as 
possible)  she  is  very  anxious  of  having  that  honor.  She  has 
heard  vast  reports  of  our  wealth  and  wisdom,  and  flatters  herself 
that  we  are  so  many  ambulatory  Indies  :  in  good  truth,  a  French- 
woman thinks  she  is  never  in  want  of  a  fortune  as  long  as 
there  is  a  rich  fool  in  the  world. 

'  Stultitiam  patiuntur  opes,' 
is  her  hope  :  and 

'  Ut  \\ifortunam,  sic  nos  te,  Celse,  feremus.' 

is  her  motto." 

"  Madame  Laurent  ! "  repeated  I,  "  why,  surely  that  is  the 
name  of  Mons.  Margot's  landlady." 

"  I  hope  not,"  cried  Vincent,  "  for  the  sake  of  our  dinner  ; 
he  reflects  no  credit  on  her  good  cheer — 

4  Who  eats  fat  dinners,  should  himself  be  fat.' " 

i  "  At  all  events,"  said  I,  "  we  can  try  the  good  lady  for  once. 
I  am  very  anxious  to  see  a  countrywoman  of  ours,  probably  the 
very  one  you  speak  of,  whom  Mons.  Margot  eulogizes  in  glow- 
ing colors,  and  who  has,  moreover,  taken  a  violent  fancy  for 
my  solemn  preceptor.  What  think  you  of  that,  Vincent  ?  " 

"Nothing  extraordinary,"  replied  Vincent  ;  "the  lady  only 
exclaims  with  the  moralist — 

'  Love,  virtue,  valor,  yea,  all  human  charms, 
Are  shrunk  and  centred  in  that  heap  of  bones, 
Oh  !  there  are  wondrous  beauties  in  the  grave  !  ' ' 

I  made  some  punning  rejoinder,  and  we  sallied  out  to  earn 
an  appetite  in  the  Tuileries  for  Madame  Laurent's  dinner. 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.  57 

At  the  hour  of  half-past  five  we  repaired  to  our  engagement. 
Madame  Laurent  received  us  with  the  most  evident  satisfac- 
tion, and  introduced  us  forthwith  to  our  countrywoman.  She 
was  a  pretty,  fair,  shrewd-looking  person,  with  an  eye  and  lip 
which,  unless  it  greatly  belied  her,  showed  her  much  more  in- 
clined to  be  merry  and  wise,  than  honest  and  true. 

Presently  Monsieur  Margot  made  his  appearance.  Though 
very  much  surprised  at  seeing  me,  he  did  not  appear  the  least 
jealous  of  my  attentions  to  his  inamorata.  Indeed,  the  good 
gentleman  was  far  too  much  pleased  with  himself  to  be  suscep- 
tible to  the  suspicions  common  to  less  fortunate  lovers.  At 
dinner  I  sat  next  to  the  pretty  Englishwoman,  whose  name  was 
Green. 

"Monsieur  Margot,"  said  I,  "has  often  spoken  to  me  of  you 
before  I  had  the  happiness  of  being  personally  convinced  how 
true  and  unexaggerated  were  his  sentiments." 

"  Oh  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Green,  with  an  arch  laugh,  "  you  are  ac- 
quainted with  Monsieur  Margot,  then  ?  " 

"  I  have  that  honor,"  said  I.  "  I  receive  from  him  every 
morning  lessons  both  in  love  and  languages.  He  is  perfect 
master  of  both." 

Mrs.  Green  burst  out  laughing. 

"  Ah,  le  pauvre  Professeur  !  "  cried  she.     "  He  is  too  absurd  !  " 

"  He  tells  me,"  said  I  gravely,  "that  he  is  quite  accable"  with 
his  bonnes  fortunes — possibly  he  flatters  himself  that  even  you 
are  not  perfectly  inaccessible  to  his  addresses." 

"  Tell  me,  Mr.  Pelham,"  said  the  fair  Mrs.  Green,  "  can  you 
pass  by  this  street  about  half-past  twelve  to-night  ? " 

"  I  will  make  a  point  of  doing  so,"  replied  I,  not  a  little  sur- 
prised by  the  question. 

"  Do,"  said  she,  "  and  now  let  us  talk  of  old  England." 

When  we  went  away  I  told  Vincent  of  my  appointment. 

"  What !  "  said  he,  "  eclipse  Monsieur  Margot !  Impossible  !  " 

"You  are  right,"  replied  I,  "  nor  is  it  my  hope;  there  is 
some  trick  afloat  to  which  we  may  as  well  be  spectators." 

"  With  all  my  heart  !  "  answered  Vincent ;  "let  us  go  till  then 

to  the  Duchesse  de  G ."  I  assented,  and  we  drove  to  the 

Rue  de . 

The  Duchesse  de  G was  a  fine  relic  of  the  anricn 

regime — tall  and  stately,  with  her  own  gray  hair  crtpe",  and  sur- 
mounted by  a  high  cap  of  the  most  dazzling  blonde.  She  had 
been  one  of  the  earliest  emigrants,  and  had  stayed  for  many 
months  with  my  mother,  whom  she  professed  to  rank  amongst 
her  dearest  friends.  The  Duchesse  possessed  to  perfection  that 


58  PELHAM  J 

singular  melange  of  ostentation  and  ignorance  which  was  so 
peculiar  to  the  ante-revolutionists.  She  would  talk  of  the  last 
tragedy  with  the  emphatic  tone  of  a  connoisseur,  in  the  same 
breath  that  she  would  ask,  with  Marie  Antoinette,  why  the  poor 
people  were  so  clamorous  for  bread,  when  they  might  buy  such 
nice  cakes  for  twopence  apiece  ?  "  To  give  you  an  idea  of  the 
Irish,"  said  she  one  day  to  an  inquisitive  marquess,  "  know 
that  \\\zy  prefer  potatoes  to  mutton  !  " 

Her  soirees  were  among  the  most  agreeable  at  Paris  :  she 
united  all  the  rank  and  talent  to  be  found  in  the  ultra  party, 
for  she  professed  to  be  quite  a  female  Maecenas  ;  and  whether 
it  was  a  mathematician  or  a  romance  writer,  a  naturalist  or  a 
poet,  she  held  open  house  for  all,  and  conversed  with  each  with 
equal  fluency  and  self-satisfaction. 

A  new  play  had  just  been  acted,  and  the  conversation,  after 
a  few  preliminary  hoverings,  settled  upon  it. 

"  You  see,"  said  the  Duchesse,  "  that  we  have  actors,  you 
authors  ;  of  what  avail  is  it  that  you  boast  of  a  Shakspeare, 
since  your  Liseton,  great  as  he  is,  cannot  be  compared  with 
our  Talma?" 

"And  yet,"  said  I,  preserving  my  gravity  with  a  pertinacity 
which  nearly  made  Vincent  and  the  rest  of  our  compatriots  as- 
sembled lose  theirs,  "  Madame  must  allow  that  there  is  a  strik- 
ing resemblance  in  their  persons,  and  the  sublimity  of  their 
acting  ? " 

"Pour  (a,  fen  conviens"  replied  this  critique  de  FEcole  des 
Femmes.  "  Mais  cependant  Liselon  n'a  pas  la  nature,  rdme, 
la  grandeur  de  Talma  !  "  * 

"  And  will  you  then  allow  us  no  actors  of  merit  ? "  asked 
Vincent. 

"  Mais  oui! — dans  le  genre  comique,  par  exemple  votre  buffo 
Kean  met  dix  fois  plus  £  esprit  et  de  drollerie  dans  ses  rdles  que 
La  Porte  "\ 

"  The  impartial  and  profound  judgment  of  Madame  admits 
of  no  further  discussion  on  this  point,"  said  I.  "What  does 
she  think  of  the  present  state  of  our  dramatic  literature?" 

"Why,"  replied  Madame,  "you  have  many  great  poets  ;  but 
when  they  write  for  the  stage  they  lose  themselves  entirely : 
your  Valter  Scote's  play  of  Robe  Roi  is  very  inferior  to  his 
novel  of  the  same  name." 

"  It  is  a  great  pity,"  said  I,  "  that  Byron  did  not  turn  his 

*  I  grant  that ;  but  Listen,  however,  has  not  the  nature,  the  soul,  the  grandeur,  of 
Talma. 

t  Yes.  in  comedy,  for  instance,  your  Kean  has  ten  times  more  vivacity  and  drcllerv  tham 
La  Porte. 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.  59 

Childe  Harold  into  a  tragedy — it  has  so  much  energy,  action — 
variety  !  " 

"  Very  true,"  said  Madame,  with  a  sigh  ;  "  but  the  tragedy 
is,  after  all,  only  suited  to  our  nation — we  alone  carry  it  to 
perfection." 

"Yet,"  said  I,  " Goldoni wrote  a.  few  fine  tragedies." 

"  Eh  bien  !  "  said  Madame,  "  one  rose  does  not  constitute  a 
garden  ! " 

And  satisfied  with  this  remark,  la  femme  savante  turned  to  a 
celebrated  traveller  to  discuss  with  him  the  chance  of  discover- 
ing the  North  Pole. 

There  were  one  or  two  clever  Englishmen  present ;  Vincent 
and  I  joined  them. 

"  Have  you  met  the  Persian  prince  yet  ? "  said  Sir  George 
Lynton  to  me  ;  "he  is  a  man  of  much  talent,  and  great  desire 
of  knowledge.  He  intends  to  publish  his  observations  on  Paris, 
and  I  suppose  we  shall  have  an  admirable  supplement  to  Mon- 
tesquieu's Lettres  Pe rsanne s  !  " 

"  I  wish  we  had,"  said  Vincent :  "  there  are  few  better  satires 
on  a  civilized  country  than  the  observations  of  visitors  less  pol- 
ished ;  while  on  the  contrary  the  civilized  traveller,  in  de- 
scribing the  manners  of  the  American  barbarian,  instead  of 
conveying  ridicule  upon  the  visited,  points  the  sarcasm  on  the 
visitor ;  and  Tacitus  could  not  have  thought  of  a  finer  or 
nobler  satire  on  the  Roman  luxuries  than  that  insinuated  by 
his  treatise  on  the  German  simplicity." 

"What,"  said  Monsieur  d'E (an  intelligent  ci-dmant 

/migre'),  "  what  political  writer  is  generally  esteemed  as  your 
best  ? " 

"  It  is  difficult  to  say,"  replied  Vincent,  "  since  with  so  many 
parties  we  have  many  idols  ;  but  I  think  I  might  venture  to 
name  Bolingbroke  as  among  the  most  popular.  Perhaps,  in- 
deed, it  would  be  difficult  to  select  a  name  more  frequently 
quoted  and  discussed  than  his  ;  and  yet  his  political  works  are 
not  very  valuable  from  political  knowledge  ;  they  contain  many 
lofty  sentiments,  and  many  beautiful  yet  scattered  truths  ;  but 
they  were  written  when  legislation,  most  debated,  was  least  un- 
derstood, and  ought  to  be  admired  rather  as  excellent  for  the 
day  than  admirable  in  themselves.  The  life  of  Bolingbroke 
would  convey  a  juster  moral  than  all  his  writings :  and  the 
author  who  gives  us  a  full  and  impartial  memoir  of  that  extra- 
ordinary man  will  have  afforded  both  to  the  philosophical  and 
political  literature  of  England  one  of  its  greatest  desiderata." 

"It   seems   to  me,"  said   Monsieur  d'E ,  "  that   your 


60  PELHAM  ; 

national  literature  is  peculiarly  deficient  in  biography — am  I 
right  in  my  opinion  ?  " 

"  Indubitably  !  "  said  Vincent  ;  "  we  have  not  a  single  work 
that  can  be  considered  a  model  in  biography  (excepting, 
perhaps,  Middleton's  Life  of  Cicero).  This  brings  on  a  re- 
mark I  have  often  made  in  distinguishing  your  philosophy 
from  ours.  It  seems  to  me  that  you  who  excel  so  admirably 
in  biography,  memoirs,  comedy,  satirical  observation  on  pe- 
culiar classes,  and  pointed  aphorisms,  are  fonder  of  consider- 
ing man  in  his  relation  to  society  and  the  active  commerce  of 
the  world,  than  in  the  more  abstracted  and  metaphysical 
operations  of  the  mind.  Our  writers,  on  the  contrary,  love  to 
indulge  rather  in  abstruse  speculations  on  their  species — to  re- 
gard man  in  an  abstract  and  isolated  point  of  view,  and  to  see 
him  think  alone  in  his  chamber,  while  you  prefer  beholding 
him  act  with  the  multitude  in  the  world." 

"  It  must  be  allowed,"  said  Monsieur  d'E ,  "  that  if  this 

be  true,  our  philosophy  is  the  most  useful,  though  yours  may 
be  the  most  profound." 

Vincent  did  not  reply. 

"Yet,"  said  Sir  George  Lynton,"  the-re  will  be  a  disadvantage 
attending  your  writings  of  this  description,  which,  by  dimin- 
ishing their  general  applicability,  diminish  their  general  utility. 
Works  which  treat  upon  man  in  his  relation  to  society  can 
only  be  strictly  applicable  so  long  as  that  relation  to  society 
treated  upon  continues.  For  instance,  the  play  which  satirizes 
a  particular  class,  however  deep  its  reflections  and  accurate 
its  knowledge  upon  the  subject  satirized,  must  necessarily  be 
obsolete  when  the  class  itself  has  become  so.  The  political 
pamphlet,  admirable  for  one  state,  may  be  absurd  in  another; 
the  novel  which  exactly  delineates  the  present  age  may  seem 
strange  and  unfamiliar  to  the  next  ;  and  thus  works  which 
treat  of  men  relatively,  and  not  man  in  se,  must  often  confine 
their  popularity  to  the  age  and  even  the  country  in  which  they 
were  written.  While,  on  the  other  hand,  the  work  which  treats 
of  man  himself,  which  seizes,  discovers,  analyzes  the  human 
mind,  as  it  is,  whether  in  the  ancient  or  the  modern,  the  sav- 
age or  the  European,  must  evidently  be  applicable,  and  conse- 
quently useful,  to  all  times  and  all  nations.  He  who  discovers 
the  circulation  of  the  blood,  or  the  origin  of  ideas,  must  be  a 
philosopher  to  every  people  who  have  veins  or  ideas ;  but  he 
who  even  most  successfully  delineates  the  manners  of  one 
country,  or  the  actions  of  one  individual,  is  only  the  philosopher 
of  a  single  country,  or  a  single  age.  If,  Monsieur  d'E-™ — , 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.  6l 

you  will  condescend  to  consider  this,  you  will  see  perhaps  that 
the  philosophy  which  treats  of  man  in  his  relations  is  not  so 
useful,  because  neither  so  permanent  nor  so  invariable,  as  that 
which  treats  of  man  in  himself."* 

I  was  now  somewhat  weary  of  this  conversation,  and  though 
it  was  not  yet  twelve,  I  seized  upon  my  appointment  as  an 
excuse  to  depart — accordingly  I  rose  for  that  purpose.  "  I 
suppose,"  said  I  to  Vincent,  "that  you  will  not  leave  your 
discussion." 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  he,  "  amusement  is  quite  as  profitable 
to  a  man  of  sense  as  metaphysics.  Allans" 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

"  I  was  in  this  terrible  situation  when  the  basket  stopped. " 

— Oriental  Tales — History  of  the  Basket. 

WE  took  our  way  to  the  street  in  which  Madame  Laurent 
resided.  Meanwhile  suffer  me  to  get  rid  of  myself,  and  to 
introduce  you,  dear  Reader,  to  my  friend,  Monsieur  Margot, 
the  whole  of  whose  adventures  were  subsequently  detailed  to 
me  by  the  garrulous  Mrs.  Green. 

At  the  hour  appointed  he  knocked  at  the  door  of  my  fair 
countrywoman,  and  was  carefullyadmitted.  He  was  attired  in  a 
dressing-gown  of  sea-green  silk,  in  which  his  long,  lean, hungry 
body  looked  more  like  a  starved  pike  than  anything  human. 

"Madame,"  said  he,  with  a  solemn  air,  "I  return  you  my 
best  thanks  for  the  honor  you  have  done  me — behold  me  at 
your  feet  ! " — and  so  saying,  the  lean  lover  gravely  knelt  down 
on  one  knee. 

"  Rise,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Green,  "  I  confess  that  you  have  won 
my  heart  ;  but  that  is  not  all,  you  have  yet  to  show  that  you 
are  worthy  of  the  opinion  I  have  formed  of  you.  It  is  not, 
Monsieur  Margot,  your  person  that  has  won  me — no  !  it  is  your 
chivalrous  and  noble  sentiments.  Prove  that  these  are  genuine, 
and  you  may  command  all  from  my  admiration." 

"  In  what  manner  shall  I  prove  it,  madame?  "said  Monsieur 

*  Yet  Hume  holds  the  contrary  opinion  to  this,  and  considers  a  good  comedy  more 
durable  than  a  system  of  philosophy.  Hume  is  right,  if  by  a  system  of  philosophy  is 
understood— a  pile  of  guesses,  false,  but  plausible,  set  up  by  one  age  to  be  destroyed  by 
the  next.  Ingenuity  cannot  rescue  error  from  oblivion  ;  but  the  moment  Wisdom  has 
discovered  Truth,  she  has  obtained  immortality.  But  is  Hume  right  when  he  suggests 
that  there  may  come  a  time  when  Addison  will  be  read  with  delight,  but  Locke  be  utterly 
forgotten  ?  For  my  part,  if  the  two  were  to  be  matched  for  posterity,  I  think  the  odds 
would  be  in  favor  of  Locke.  I  very  much  doubt  whether,  five  hundred  years  hence,  Addi- 
son will  be  read  at  all,  and  I  am  quite  sure  that,  a  thousand  years  hence,  Locke  will  not  be 
forgotten. 


62  PELHAM  ; 

Margot,  rising,  and  gracefully  drawing  his  sea-green  gown  more 
closely  around  him. 

"  By  your  courage,  your  devotion,  and  gallantry  !  I  ask  but 
one  proof — you  can  give  it  me  on  the  spot.  You  remember, 
monsieur,  that  in  the  days  of  romance,  a  lady  threw  her  glove 
upon  the  stage  on  which  a  lion  was  exhibited,  and  told  her 
lover  to  pick  it  up.  Monsieur  Margot,  the  trial  to  which  I 
shall  put  you  is  less  severe.  Look  (and  Mrs.  Green  threw 
open  the  window) — look,  1  throw  my  glove  out  into  the  street — 
descend  for  it." 

"  Your  commands  are  my  law,"  said  the  romantic  Margot. 
"  I  will  go  forthwith,"  and  so  saying,  he  went  to  the  door. 

"  Hold,  sir  !  "  said  the  lady,  "  it  is  not  by  that  simple  manner 
that  you  are  to  descend ;  you  must  go  the  same  way  as  my 
glove,  out  of  the  window" 

"Out  of  the  window,  madame  !  "  said  Monsieur  Margot, 
with  astonished  solemnity  ;  ".that  is  impossible,  because  this 
apartment  is  three  stories  high,  and  consequently  I  shall  be 
dashed  to  pieces." 

"  By  no  means,"  answered  the  dame  ;  "  in  that  corner  of  the 
room  there  is  a  basket,  to  which  (already  foreseeing  your  de- 
termination) I  have  affixed  a  rope ;  by  that  basket  you  shall 
descend.  See,  monsieur,  what  expedients  a  provident  love  can 
suggest." 

"  H-e-m  !  "  said,  very  slowly,  Monsieur  Margot,  by  no 
means  liking  the  airy  voyage  imposed  upon  him  ;  "  but  the 
rope  may  break,  or  your  hand  may  surfer  it  to  slip." 

"Feel  the  rope,"  cried  the  lady,  "to  satisfy  you  as  to  your 
first  doubt  ;  and,  as  to  the  second,  can  you — can  you  imagine 
that  my  affections  would  not  make  me  twice  as  careful  of  your 
person  as  of  my  own  ?  Fie  !  ungrateful  Monsieur  Margot !  fie!" 

The  melancholy  chevalier  cast  a  rueful  look  at  the  basket. 
"  Madame,"  said  he,  ''I  own  that  I  am  very  averse  to  the  plan 
you  propose  :  suffer  me  to  go  downstairs  in  the  ordinary  way  ; 
your  glove  can  easily  be  picked  up  whether  your  adorer  goes 
out  of  the  door  or  the  window.  It  is  only,  madame,  when 
ordinary  means  fail,  that  we  should  have  recourse  to  the  ex- 
traordinary." 

"  Begone,  sir  !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Green — "begone!  I  now 
perceive  that  your  chivalry  was  only  a  pretence.  Fool  that  I 
was  to  love  you  as  I  have  done  !  fool  that  I  was  to  imagine  a 
hero  where  I  now  find  a — " 

"  Pause,  madame,  I  will  obey  you — my  heart  is  firm — see 
that  the  rope  is  ! — " 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          63 

"  Gallant  Monsieur  Margot  !  "  cried  the  lady  ;  and  going  to 
her  dressing-room,  she  called  her  woman  to  her  assistance. 
The  rope  was  of  the  most  unquestionable  thickness,  the  basket 
of  the  most  capacious  dimensions.  The  former  was  fastened 
to  a  strong  hook — and  the  latter  lowered. 

"  I  go,  madame,"  said  Monsier  Margot,  feeling  the  rope  ; 
but  it  really  is  a  most  dangerous  exploit." 

"  Go,  monsieur  !  and  St.  Louis  befriend  you  !  " 

"Stop!"  said  Monsieur  Margot,  "let  me  fetch  my  coat  : 
the  night  is  cold,  and  my  dressing-gown  thin." 

"  Nay,  nay,  my  chevalier,"  returned  the  dame,  "  I  love  you 
in  that  gown  :  it  gives  you  an  air  of  grace  and  dignity  quite 
enchanting." 

"It  will  give  me  my  death  of  cold,  madame,"  said  Monsieur 
Margot  earnestly. 

"  Bah  !  "  said  the  Englishwoman  :  "  what  knight  ever  feared 
cold  ?  Besides,  you  mistake  ;  the  night  is  warm,  and  you  look 
so  handsome  in  your  gown." 

"  Do  I  ! "  said  the  vain  Monsieur  Margot,  with  an  iron  ex- 
pression of  satisfaction.  "If  that  is  the  case,  I  will  mind  it 
less  ;  but  may  I  return  by  the  door  ?  " 

"Yes,"  replied  the  lady  ;  "  you  see  that  I  do  not  require  too 
much  from  your  devotion — enter." 

"  Behold  me  !  "  said  the  French  master,  inserting  his  body 
into  the  basket,  which  immediately  began  to  descend. 

The  hour  and  the  police  of  course  made  the  street  empty ; 
the  lady's  handkerchief  waved  in  token  of  encouragement  and 
triumph.  When  the  basket  was  within  five  yards  of  the 
ground,  Mrs.  Green  cried  to  her  lover,  who  had  been  hitherto 
elevating  his  serious  countenance  towards  her,  in  sober,  yet 
gallant,  sadness  : 

"  Look,  look,  monsieur — straight  before  you." 

The  lover  turned  round,  as  rapidly  as  his  habits  would  allow 
him,  and  at  that  instant  the  window  was  shut,  the  light  extin- 
guished, and  the  basket  arrested.  There  stood  Monsieur  Mar- 
got,  upright  in  the  basket,  and  there  stopped  the  basket, 
motionless  in  the  air  ! 

What  were  the  exact  reflections  of  Monsieur  Margot,  in  that 
position,  I  cannot  pretend  to  determine,  because  he  never  fav- 
ored me  with  them  ;  but  about  an  hour  aftenvards,/Vincent  and 
I  (who  had  been  delayed  on  the  road),  strolling  up  the  street, 
according  to  our  appointment,  perceived,  by  the  dim  lamps, 
some  opaque  body  leaning  against  the  wall  of  Madame  Laurent's 
house,  at  about  the  distance  of  fifteen  feet  from  the  ground.. 


64  PELHAM  ; 

We  hastened  our  steps  towards  it  ;  a  measured  and  serious 
voice,  which  I  well  knew,  accosted  us  : 

"  For  God's  sake,  gentlemen,  procure  me  assistance.  I  am 
the  victim  of  a  perfidious  woman,  and  expect  every  moment 
to  be  precipitated  to  the  earth." 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  said  I,  "  surely  it  is  Monsieur  Margot 
whom  I  hear.  What  are  you  doing  there  ?  " 

"  Shivering  with  cold,"  answered  Monsieur  Margot,  in  a  tone 
tremulously  slow. 

"  But  what  are  you  in  ?  for  I  can  see  nothing  but  a  dark 
substance." 

"I  am  in  a  basket,"  replied  Monsieur  Margot,  "and  I  should 
be  very  much  obliged  to  you  to  let  me  out  of  it." 

"  Well — indeed,"  said  Vincent  (for  I  was  too  much  engaged 
in  laughing  to  give  a  ready  reply),  "your  Chateau  Margot  has 
but  a  cool  cellar.  But  there  are  some  things  in  the  world 
easier  said  than  done.  How  are  we  to  remove  you  to  a  more 
desirable  place  ?  " 

"  Ah,"  returned  Monsieur  Margot,  "  how  indeed  !  There 
is,  to  be  sure,  a  ladder  in  the  porter's  lodge  long  enough  to  de- 
liver me  ;  but  then,  think  of  the  gibes  and  jeers  of  the  porter! 
It  will  get  wind  ;  I  shall  be  ridiculed,  gentlemen — I  shall  be 
ridiculed  ;  and  what  is  worse,  I  shall  lose  my  pupils." 

"  My  good  friend,"  said  I,  "you  had  better  lose  your  pupils 
than  your  life  ;  and  the  daylight  will  soon  come,  and  then,  in- 
stead of  being  ridiculed  by  the  porter,  you  will  be  ridiculed 
by  the  whole  street  !  " 

Monsieur  Margot  groaned.  "Go,  then,  my  friend,"  said 
he,  "  procure  the  ladder !  Oh,  those  she-devils  !  What  could 
make  me  such  a  fool  !  " 

Whilst  Monsieur  Margot  was  venting  his  spleen  in  a  scarce- 
ly articulate  mutter,  we  repaired  to  the  lodge,  knocked  up  the 
porter,  communicated  the  accident,  and  procured  the  ladder. 
However,  an  observant  eye  had  been  kept  upon  our  proceed- 
ings, and  the  window  above  was  re-opened,  though  so  silently 
that  I  only  perceived  the  action.  The  porter,  a  jolly,  bluff, 
hearty-looking  fellow,  stood  grinning  below  with  a  lantern, 
while  we  set  the  ladder  (which  only  just  reached  the  basket) 
against  the  wall. 

The  chevalier  looked  wistfully  forth,  and  then,  by  the  light 
of  the  lantern,  we  had  a  fair  view  of  his  ridiculous  figure.  His 
teeth  chattered  woefully,  and  the  united  cold  without  and 
anxiety  within  threw  a  double  sadness  and  solemnity  upon  his 
withered  countenance.  The  night  was  very  windy,  and  every 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          65 

instant  a  rapid  current  seized  the  unhappy  sea-green  vesture, 
whirled  it  in  the  air,  and  threw  it,  as  if  in  scorn,  over  the  very 
face  of  the  miserable  professor.  The  constant  recurrence  of 
this  sportive  irreverence  of  the  gales — the  high  sides  of  the 
basket,  and  the  trembling  agitation  of  the  inmate,  never  too 
agile,  rendered  it  a  work  of  some  time  for  Monsieur  Margot  to 
transfer  himself  from  the  basket  to  the  ladder.  At  length, 
he  had  fairly  got  out  one  thin,  shivering  leg. 

"  Thank  Heaven  !  "  said  the  pious  professor — when  at  that 
instant  the  thanksgiving  was  checked,  and,  to  Monsieur  Mar- 
got's  inexpressible  astonishment  and  dismay,  the  basket  rose 
five  feet  from  the  ladder,  leaving  its  tenant  with  one  leg  dang- 
ling out,  like  a  flag  from  a  balloon. 

The  ascent  was  too  rapid  to  allow  Monsieur  Margot  even  time 
for  an  exclamation,  and  it  was  not  till  he  had  had  sufficient 
leisure  in  his  present  elevation  to  perceive  all  its  consequences, 
that  he  found  words  to  say,  with  the  most  earnest  tone  of 
thoughtful  lamentation  :  "  One  could  not  have  foreseen  this ! 
It  is  really  extremely  distressing — would  to  Heaven  that  I  could 
get  my  leg  in,  or  my  body  out !  " 

While  we  were  yet  too  convulsed  with  laughter  to  make  any 
comment  upon  the  unlooked-for  ascent  of  the  luminous  Mon- 
sieur Margot,  the  basket  descended  with  such  force  as  to  dash 
the  lantern  out  of  the  hand  of  the  porter,  and  to  bring  the  pro- 
fessor so  precipitously  to  the  ground  that  all  the  bones  in  his 
skin  rattled  audibly. 

"  Mon  Dieu!"  said  he,  "  I  am  done  for  !  Be  witness  how 
inhumanly  I  have  been  murdered." 

We  pulled  him  out  of  the  basket,  and  carried  him  between  us 
into  the  porter's  lodge.  But  the  woes  of  Monsieur  Magot 
were  not  yet  at  their  termination.  The  room  was  crowded. 
There  was  Madame  Laurent ;  there  was  the  German  count, 
whom  the  professor  was  teaching  French  ;  there  was  the  French 
viscount,  whom  he  was  teaching  German  ;  there  were  all  his 
fellow-lodgers,  the  ladies  whom  he  had  boasted  of,  the  men  he 
had  boasted  to.  Don  Juan,  in  the  infernal  regions,  could  not 
have  met  with  a  more  unwelcome  set  of  old  acquaintances 
than  Monsieur  Margot  had  the  happiness  of  opening  his  bewil- 
dered eyes  upon  in  the  porter's  lodge. 

"What!"  cried  they  all,  "  Monsieur  Margot,  is  that  you  who 
have  been  frightening  us  so  ?  We  thought  the  house  was  at- 
tacked. The  Russian  general  is  at  this  very  moment  loading 
his  pistols ;  lucky  for  you  that  you  did  not  choose  to  stay 
longer  in  that  situation.  Pray,  monsieur,  what  could  induce 


66  PELHAM  J 

you  to  exhibit  yourself  so,  in  your  dressing-gown  too,  and  the 
night  so  cold  ?  Ar'n't  you  ashamed  of  yourself?  " 

All  this,  and  infinitely  more,  was  levelled  against  the  miserable 
professor,  who  stood  shivering  with  cold  and  fright ;  and  turn- 
ing his  eyes  first  on  one,  and  then  on  another,  as  the  exclama- 
tions circulated  round  the  room. 

"  I  do  assure  you,"  at  length  he  began. 

"No,  no,"  cried  one,  "it  is  of  no  use  explaining  now  !  " 

"  Mais,  Messieurs — "  querulously  recommenced  the  unhappy 
Margot. 

"  Hold  your  tongue,"  exclaimed  Madame  Laurent,  "you 
have  been  disgracing  my  house." 

"  Mais ,  Madame,  e"coutez-moi — " 

"No,  no,"  cried  the  German,  "  we  saw  you — we  saw  you." 

"  Mais,  Monsieur  le  Comte — " 

"  Fie,  fie  !  "  cried  the  Frenchman. 

"  Mais,  Monsieur  le  Vicomte — " 

At  this  every  mouth  was  opened,  and  the  patience  of  Mon- 
sieur Margot  being  by  this  time  exhausted,  he  flew  into  a  violent 
rage;  his  tormentors  pretended  an  equal  indignation,  and  at 
length  he  fought  his  way  out  of  the  room  as  fast  as  his  shattered 
bones  would  allow  him,  followed  by  the  whole  body,  screaming, 
and  shouting  and  scolding,  and  laughing  after  him. 

The  next  morning  passed  without  my  usual  lesson  from 
Monsieur  Margot :  lha.t  was  natural  enough  ;  but  when  the 
next  day,  and  the  next,  rolled  on,  and  brought  neither  Monsieur 
Margot  nor  his  excuse,  I  began  to  be  uneasy  for  the  poor  man. 
Accordingly  I  sent  to  Madame  Laurent's  to  inquire  after  him  : 
judge  of  my  surprise  at  hearing  that  he  had,  early  the  day  after 
his  adventure,  left  his  lodgings  with  his  small  possession  of 
books  and  clothes,  leaving  only  a  note  to  Madame  Laurent, 
enclosing  the  amount  of  his  debt  to  her,  and  that  none  had  since 
seen  or  heard  of  him. 

From  that  day  to  this  I  have  never  once  beheld  him.  The 
poor  professor  lost  even  the  little  money  due  to  him  for  his 
lessons — so  true  is  it,  that  in  a  man  of  Monsieur  Margot's  tem- 
per, even  interest  is  a  subordinate  passion  to  vanity  ! 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          6| 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

"  It  is  good  to  be  merry  and  wise, 

It's  good  to  be  honest  and  true  ; 
It  is  good  to  be  off  with  the  old  love, 
Before  you  be  on  with  the  new." — Song. 

ONE  morning  when  I  was  riding  to  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  (the 
celebrated  place  of  assignation),  in  order  to  meet  Madame 
d'Anville,  I  saw  a  lady  on  horseback,  in  the  most  imminent 
danger  of  being  thrown.  Her  horse  had  taken  fright  at  an 
English  tandem,  or  its  driver,  and  was  plunging  violently  ;  the 
lady  was  evidently  much  frightened,  and  lost  her  presence  of 
mind  more  and  more  every  moment.  A  man  who  was  with  her, 
and  who  could  scarcely  manage  his  own  horse,  appeared  to  be 
exceedingly  desirous,  but  perfectly  unable,  to  assist  her ;  and 
a  great  number  of  people  were  looking  on,  doing  nothing,  and 
saying,  "Man  Dieu,  how  dangerous  !  " 

I  have  always  had  a  great  horror  of  being  a  hero  in  scenes, 
and  a  still  greater  antipathy  to  "females  in  distress."  However, 
so  great  is  the  effect  of  sympathy  upon  the  most  hardened  of 
us,  that  I  stopped  for  a  few  moments,  first  to  look  on,  and 
secondly  to  assist.  Just  when  a  moment's  delay  might  have 
been  dangerous,  I  threw  myself  off  my  horse,  seized  hers  with 
one  hand  by  the  rein  which  she  no  longer  had  the  strength  to 
hold,  and  assisted  her  with  the  other  to  dismount.  When  all 
the  peril  was  over,  monsieur,  her  companion,  managed  also  to 
find  his  legs  ;  and  I  did  not,  I  confess,  wonder  at  his  previous 
delay,  when  I  discovered  that  the  lady  in  danger  had  been  his 
wife.  He  gave  me  a  profusion  of  thanks,  and  she  made  them 
more  than  complimentary  by  the  glance  which  accompanied 
them.  Their  carriage  was  in  attendance  at  a  short  distance 
behind.  The  husband  went  for  it — I  remained  with  the  lady. 

"  Mr.  Pelham,"  she  said,  "  I  have  heard  much  of  you  from 
my  friend  Madame  d'Anville,  and  have  long  been  anxious  for 
your  acquaintance.  I  did  not  think  I  should  commence  it 
with  so  great  an  obligation." 

Flattered  by  being  already  known  by  name,  and  a  subject  of 
previous  interest,  you  may  be  sure  that  I  tried  every  method  to 
improve  the  opportunity  I  had  gained;  and  when  I  handed  my 
new  acquaintance  into  her  carriage,  my  pressure  of  her  hand 
was  somewhat  more  than  slightly  returned. 

"  Shall  you  be  at  the  English  ambassador's  to-night  ?"  said 
the  lady,  as  they  were  about  to  shut  the  door  of  the  carriage. 


68  PELHAM  J 

"Certainly,  if  you  are  to  be  there,"  was  my  answer. 

"We  shall  meet  then,"  said  madame,  and  her  look  said  more. 

I  rode  into  the  Bois  ;  and  giving  my  horse  to  my  servant,  as 
I  came  near  Passy,  where  I  was  to  meet  Madame  d'Anville,  I 
proceeded  thither  on  foot.  I  was  just  in  sight  of  the  spot,  and 
indeed  of  my  inamorata,  when  two  men  passed,  talking  very 
earnestly  ;  they  did  not  remark  me,  but  what  individual  could 
ever  escape  my  notice  ?  The  one  was  Thornton  ;  the  other — 
who  could  he  be  ?  Where  had  I  seen  that  pale  and  remark- 
able countenance  before?  I  looked  again.  /  was  satisfied 
that  I  was  mistaken  in  my  first  thought ;  the  hair  was  of  a 
completely  different  color.  "No,  no,"  said  I,  " it  is  not  he  : 
yet  how  like  !  " 

I  was  distrait  and  absent  during  the  whole  time  I  was  with 
Madame  d'Anville.  The  face  of  Thornton's  companion 
haunted  me  like  a  dream  ;  and,  to  say  the  truth,  there  were  also 
moments  when  the  recollection  of  my  new  engagement  for  the 
evening  made  me  tired  with  that  which  I  was  enjoying  the 
troublesome  honor  of  keeping. 

Madame  d'Anville  was  not  slow  in  perceiving  the  coldness 
of  my  behavior.  Though  a  Frenchwoman,  she  was  rather 
grieved  than  resentful. 

"  You  are  growing  tired  of  me,  my  friend,"  she  said  ;  "  and 
when  I  consider  your  youth  and  temptations,  I  cannot  be  sur- 
prised at  it — yet,  I  own,  that  this  thought  gives  me  much 
greater  pain  than  I  could  have  supposed." 

"Bah!  ma  belle  amie"  cried  I,  "you  deceive  yourself— I 
adore  you — I  shall  always  adore  you  ;  but  it's  getting  very  late!" 

Madame  d'Anville  sighed,  and  we  parted.  "She  is  not  half 
so  pretty  or  agreeable  as  she  was,"  thought  I,  as  I  mounted  my 
horse,  and  remembered  my  appointment  at  the  ambassador's. 

I  took  unusual  pains  with  my  appearance  that  evening,  and 
drove  to  the  ambassador's  hotel  in  the  Rue  Faubourg  St. 
Honore",  full  half  an  hour  earlier  than  I  had  ever  done  before. 
I  had  been  some  time  in  the  rooms  without  discovering  my 
heroine  of  the  morning.  The  Duchess  of  H n  passed  by. 

"  What  a  wonderfully  beautiful  woman  !"  said  Mr.  Howard  de 
Howard,  a  lean  gentleman,  who  valued  himself  on  his  ances- 
tors, to  Mr.  Aberton. 

"Ay,"  answered  Aberton,  "  but  to  my  taste,  the  Duchess  de 
Perpignan  is  quite  equal  to  her — do  you  know  her  ?  " 

"  No — yes  !  "  said  Mr.  Howard  de  Howard  ;  "  that  is,  not  ex- 
actly— not  well."  An  Englishman  never  owns  that  he  does  not 
know  a  duchess. 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.  69 

"Hem!"  said  Mr.  Aberton,  thrusting  his  large  hand  th  a»ugh 
his  lank  light  hair.  "  Hem — could  one  do  anything,  do  you 
think,  in  that  quarter  ?  " 

"  I  should  think  one  might,  with  a  tolerable  person  !"  an- 
swered the  spectral  aristocrat,  looking  down  at  a  pair  of  most 
shadowy  supporters. 

"Pray,"  said  Aberton,  "what  do  you  think  of  Miss ? 

They  say  she  is  an  heiress." 

"  Think  of  her  !  "  said  Mr.  Howard  de  Howard,  who  was  as 
poor  as  he  was  thin,  "  why,  I  have  thought  of  her  !  " 

"They  say  that  fool  Pelham  makes  up  to  her.  ?  (Little 
did  Mr.  Aberton  imagine,  when  he  made  this  remark,  that  I 
was  close  behind  him.) 

"I  should  not  imagine  that  was  true,"  said  the  secretary; 
"he  is  so  occupied  with  Madame  d'Anville." 

"  Pooh  !  "  said  Aberton  dictatorially,  "  she  never  had  any- 
thing to  say  to  him." 

"  Why  are  you  so  sure  ?  "  said  Mr.  Howard  de  Howard. 

"  Why — because  he  never  showed  any  notes  from  her,  nor 
ever  even  said  he  had  a  liaison  with  her  !  " 

"Ah  !  that  is  quite  enough  !"  said  Mr.  Howard  de  Howard. 
"  But  is  not  that  the  Duchess  de  Perpignan?" 

Mr.  Aberton  turned,  and  so  did  I — our  eyes  met — his  fell  ; 
well  they  might,  after  his  courteous  epithet  to  my  name  ;  how- 
ever, I  had  far  too  good  an  opinion  of  myself  to  care  one 
straw  about  his  ;  besides,  at  that  moment,  I  was  wholly  lost  in 
my  surprise  and  pleasure  in  finding  that  this  Duchess  de  Per- 
pignan was  no  other  than  my  acquaintance  of  the  morning. 
She  caught  my  gaze  and  smiled  as  she  bowed.  "  Now," 
thought  I,  as  I  approached  her, "  let  us  see  if  we  cannot  eclipse 
Mr.  Aberton." 

All  love-making  is  just  the  same,  and,  therefore,  I  shall  spare 
the  reader  my  conversation  that  evening.  When  he  recollects 
that  it  was  Henry  Pelham  who  was  the  gallant,  I  am  persuaded 
that  he  will  be  pretty  certain  as  to  the  success. 


PELHAM 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

"  Alea  sequa  vorax  species  certissima  furti 

Non  contenta  bonis,  animum  quoque  perfida  mergit ; — 
Furca,  furax — infamis,  iners,  furiosa,  ruina."  * — PETR.  Dial. 

I  DINED  the  next  day  at  the  Freres  Prover^aux  ;  an  excel' 
lent  restaurateur's,  by-the-by,  where  one  gets  irreproachable 
gibier,  and  meets  few  English. f  After  dinner  I  strolled  into 
the  various  gambling-houses  with  which  the  Palais  Royal 
abounds. 

In  one  of  these  the  crowd  and  heat  were  so  great  that  I  should 
immediately  have  retired  if  I  had  not  been  struck  with  the 
intense  expression  of  interest  in  the  countenance  of  one  of  the 
spectators  at  the  rouge  et  noir  table.  He  was  a  man  about  forty 
years  of  age  ;-his  complexion  was  dark  and  sallow  ;  the  features 
prominent,  and  what  are  generally  called  handsome  ;  but  there 
was  a  certain  sinister  expression  in  his  eyes  and  mouth  which 
rendered  the  effect  of  his  physiognomy  rather  disagreeable 
than  prepossessing.  At  a  small  distance  from  him,  and  play- 
ing with  an  air  which,  in  its  carelessness  and  nonchalance, 
formed  a  remarkable  contrast  to  the  painful  anxiety  of  the  man 
I  have  just  described,  sate  Mr.  Thornton. 

At  first  sight  these  two  appeared  to  be  the  only  Englishmen 
present  beside  myself  ;  I  was  more  struck  by  seeing  the  former 
in  that  scene  than  I  was  at  meeting  Thornton  there  ;  for  there 
was  something  distinguished  in  the  mien  of  the  stranger,  which 
suited  far  worse  with  the  appearance  of  the  place  than  the  air 
and  dress  of  my  ci-devanl  second. 

"  What !  another  Englishman  ?  "  thought  I,  as  I  turned  round 
and  perceived  a  thick,  rough  great-coat,  which  could  possibly 
belong  to  no  Continental  shoulders.  The  wearer  was  standing 
directly  opposite  the  seat  of  the  swarthy  stranger  ;  his  hat  was 
slouched  over  his  face ;  I  moved  in  order  to  get  a  clearer  view 
of  his  countenance.  It  was  the  same  person  I  had  seen  with 
Thornton  that  morning.  Never  to  this  moment  have  I  forgot- 
ten the  stern  and  ferocious  expression  with  which  he  was  gazing 
upon  the  keen  and  agitated  features  of  the  gambler  opposite. 
In  the  eye  and  lip  there  was  neither  pleasure,  hatred,  nor  scorn, 

*  Gaming,  that  direst  felon  of  the  breast, 

Steals  more  than  fortune  from  its  wretched  thrall, 
Spreads  o'er  the  soul  the  inert  devouring  pest, 
And  gnaws,  and  rots,  and  taints,  and  ruins  all. — PARAPHRASE. 

t  &r.  Pelham  could  not  say  as  much  for  the  Freres  Provettfaux  at  present. 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.  71 

in  their  simple  and  unalloyed  elements  ;  but  each  seemed  blent 
and  mingled  into  one  deadly  concentration  of  evil  passions. 

This  man  neither  played,  nor  spoke,  nor  moved.  He  ap- 
peared utterly  insensible  of  every  feeling  in  common  with 
those  around.  There  he  stood,  wrapped  in  his  own  dark  and 
inscrutable  thoughts,  never,  for  one  instant,  taking  his  looks 
from  the  varying  countenance  which  did  not  observe  their 
gaze,  nor  altering  the  withering  character  of  their  almost  de- 
moniacal expression.  I  could  not  tear  myself  from  the  spot. 
I  felt  chained  by  some  mysterious  and  undefinable  interest ; 
my  attention  was  first  diverted  into  a  new  channel  by  a  loud 
exclamation  from  the  dark-visaged  gambler  at  the  table ;  it 
was  the  first  he  had  uttered,  notwithstanding  his  anxiety ;  and, 
from  the  deep,  thrilling  tone  in  which  it  was  expressed,  it 
conveyed  a  keen  sympathy  with  the  overcharged  feelings  which 
it  burst  from. 

With  a  trembling  hand  he  took  from  an  old  purse  the  few 
Napoleons  that  were  still  left  there.  He  set  them  all  at  one 
hazard  on  the  rouge.  He  hung  over  the  table  with  a  dropping 
lip  ;  his  hands  were  tightly  clasped  in  each  other ;  his  nerves 
seemed  strained  into  the  last  agony  of  excitation.  I  ventured 
to  raise  my  eyes  upon  the  gaze,  which  I  felt  must  still  be  upon 
the  gambler — there  it  was  fixed,  and  stern  as  before ! — but  it 
now  conveyed  a  deeper  expression  of  joy  than  it  had  hitherto 
assumed  ;  yet  a  joy  so  malignant  and  fiendish  that  no  look  of 
mere  anger  or  hatred  could  have  equally  chilled  my  heart.  I 
dropped  my  eyes.  I  redoubled  my  attention  to  the  cards — 
the  last  two  were  to  be  turned  up.  A  moment  more  ! — the 
fortune  was  to  the  noir.  The  stranger  had  lost!  He  did  not 
utter  a  single  word.  He  looked  with  a  vacant  eye  on  the  long 
mace  with  which  the  marker  had  swept  away  his  last  hopes 
with  his  last  coin,  and  then,  rising,  left  the  room,  and  dis- 
appeared. 

The  other  Englishman  was  not  long  in  following  him.  He 
uttered  a  short,  low  laugh,  unheard,  perhaps,  by  any  one  but 
myself;  and,  pushing  through  the  atmosphere  of  sacrSs !  and 
tnille  tonnerres!  which  filled  that  pandemonium,  strode  quickly 
to  the  door.  I  felt  as  if  a  load  had  been  taken  from  my  bosom 
when  he  »vas  gone. 


72  PELHAM  J 

CHAPTER  XX. 

"  Reddere  person*  scit  convenientia  cuique."  * — HOR.  Ars  Poet. 

I  WAS  loitering  over  my  breakfast  the  next  morning  and 
thinking  of  the  last  night's  scene,  when  Lord  Vincent  was  an- 
nounced. 

"  How  fares  the  gallant  Pelham  ? "  said  he,  as  he  entered  the 
room. 

"  Why,  to  say  the  truth,"  I  replied,  "  I  am  rather  under  the 
influence  of  blue  devils  this  morning,  and  your  visit  is  like  a 
sunbeam  in  November." 

"  A  bright  thought,"  said  Vincent,  "  and  I  shall  make  you  a 
very  pretty  little  poet  soon  ;  publish  you  in  a  neat  octavo,  and 

dedicate  you  to  Lady  D e.  Pray,  by  the  by,  have  you  ever 

read  her  plays  ?  You  know  they  were  only  privately  printed  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  I  (for  in  good  truth,  had  his  lordship  interrogated 
me  touching  any  other  literary  production,  I  should  have  es- 
teemed it  a  part  of  my  present  character  to  return  the  same 
answer). 

"  No  !  "  repeated  Vincent ;  "  permit  me  to  tell  you  that  you 
must  never  seem  ignorant  of  any  work  not  published.  To  be 
admired,  one  must  always  know  what  other  people  don't — and 
then  one  has  full  liberty  to  sneer  at  the  value  of  what  other 
people  do  know.  Renounce  the  threshold  of  knowledge. 
There,  every  new  proselyte  can  meet  you.  Boast  of  your  ac- 
quaintance with  the  sanctum,  and  not  one  in  ten  thousand  can 
dispute  it  with  you.  Have  you  read  Monsieur  de  C 's  pam- 
phlet ? " 

"  Really,"  said  I,  "  I  have  been  so  busy  !  " 

"  Ah,  nwn  ami!"  cried  Vincent,  "  the  greatest  sign  of  an  idle 
man  is  to  complain  of  being  busy.  But  you  have  had  a  loss  : 
the  pamphlet  is  good.  C ,  by  the  way,  has  an  extraordi- 
nary, though  not  an  expanded,  mind  :  it  is  like  a  citizen's  gar- 
den near  London  ;  a  pretty  parterre  here,  and  a  Chinese  pa- 
goda there  ;  an  oak-tree  in  one  corner,  and  a  mushroom  bed  in 
the  other  :  and  above  all,  a  Gothic  Ruin  opposite  the  bay-win- 
dow !  You  may  traverse  the  whole  in  a  stride  ;  it  is  the  four 
quarters  of  the  globe  in  a  mole-hill.  Yet  everything  is  good 
in  its  kind  ;  and  is  neither  without  elegance  nor  design  in  its 
arrangement." 

*  The  appropriate  justice  sorts  each  shade  and  hue. 
And  gives  tp  each  the  exact  proportion  due.— PARAPHRASE. 


6k,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          7$ 

"  What  do  you  think,"  said   I,  "  of   the  Baron  de ,  the 

minister  of ?" 

"  Of  him  !  "  replied  Vincent — 

"  'His  soul 
Still  sits  at  squat,  and  peeps  not  from  its  hole.' 

It  is  dark  and  bewildered — full  of  dim  visions  of  the  ancient 
regime ;  it  is  a  bat  hovering  about  the  cells  of  an  old  abbey. 
Poor,  antique  little  soul  !  but  I  will  say  nothing  more  about 
it— 

'  For  who  would  be  satirical 
Upon  a  thing  so  very  small ' 


as  the  soul  of  the  Baron  de !  " 

Finding  Lord  Vincent  so  disposed  to  the  biting  mood,  I  im- 
mediately directed  his  rabies  towards  Mr.  Aberton. 

"  Aberton,"  said  Vincent,  in  answer  to  my  question  if  he  knew 
that  amiable  young  gentleman  :  "  yes  !  a  sort  of  man  who, 
speaking  of  the  best  society,  says  we  •  who  sticks  his  best  cards 
on  his  chimney-piece,  and  writes  himself  billets-doux  f rom  duch- 
esses. A  duodecimo  of  '  precious  conceits,'  bound  in  calf- 
skin— I  know  the  man  well ;  does  he  not  dress  decently,  Pel- 
ham  ? " 

"His  clothes  are  well  made,"  said  I  candidly. 

"  Ah  ! "  said  Vincent,  "  I  should  think  he  went  to  the  best 
tailor,  and  said,  'Give  me  a  collar  like  Lord  So  and  So's"  ; 
one  who  would  not  dare  to  have  anew  waistcoat  till  it  had  been 
authoritatively  patronized,  and  who  took  his  fashions,  like 
his  follies,  from  the  best  proficients.  Such  fellows  are  always 
too  ashamed  of  themselves  not  to  be  proud  of  their  clothes  ; 
like  the  Chinese  mariners,  they  burn  incense  before  the  needle !" 

"  And  Mr.  Howard  de  Howard,"  said  I  laughing,  "  what  do 
you  think  of  him  ?  " 

"  What !  the  thin  Eupatrid  ?  "  cried  Vincent.  "  He  is  the 
mathematical  definition  of  a  straight  line — length  without 
breadth.  His  inseparable  friend,  Mr.  Aberton,  was  running  up 
the  Rue  St.  Honore"  yesterday  in  order  to  catch  him,  and  when 
I  saw  him  chasing  that  meagre  apparition,  I  said  to  Benning- 
ton,  '  I  have  found  out  the  real  Peter  Schlemil  !  '  'Whom?' 
(asked  his" grave  lordship,  with  serious  naivete"} — '  Mr.  Aber- 
ton,' said  I  ;  '  don't  you  see  him  running  after  his  shadow  ?  ' 
But  the  pride  of  the  lean  thing  is  so  amusing  !  He  is  fifteenth 
cousin  to  the  duke,  and  so  his  favorite  exordium  is, '  Whenever 
I  succeed  to  the  title  of  my  ancestors.'  It  was  but  the  other 
day  that  he  heard  two  or  three  silly  young  men  discussing 


74  PELHAM  ; 

Church  and  State,  and  they  began  by  talking  irreligion  (Mr. 
Howard  de  Howard  is  too  unsubstantial  not  to  be  spiritually 
inclined);  however,  he  only  fidgeted  in  his  chair.  They  then 
proceeded  to  be  exceedingly  disloyal.  Mr.  Howard  de  How- 
ard fidgeted  again.  They  tnen  passed  to  vituperation  on  the 
aristocracy  ;  this  the  attenuated  pomposity  (magni  nominis 
umbra)  could  brook  no  longer.  He  rose  up,  cast  a  severe  look 
on  the  abashed  youths,  and  thus  addressed  them  :  '  Gentle- 
men, I  have  sate  by  in  silence,  and  heard  my  King  derided, 
and  my  God  blasphemed  ;  but  now,  when  you  attack  the  aris- 
tocracy, I  can  no  longer  refrain  from  noticing  so  obviously  in- 
tentional an  insult.  You  have  become  personal." 

"  Pray,  Vincent,"  said  I  after  a  short  pause,  "  did  you  ever 
meet  with  a  Mr.  Thornton  at  Paris  ?  " 

"  Thornton,  Thornton,"  said  Vincent  musingly  ;  "  What, 
Tom  Thornton  ? " 

"  I  should  think  very  likely,"  I  replied  ;  "  just  the  sort  of  man 
who  would  be  Tom  Thornton — has  a  broad  face,  with  a  color, 
and  wears  a  spotted  neckcloth  ;  Tom — what  could  his  name 
be  but  Tom  ?" 

"  Is  he  about  five-and-thirty  ? "  asked  Vincent,  "  rather 
short,  and  with  reddish-color  hair  and  whiskers  ?  " 

"  Precisely,"  said  I ;  "are  not  ail  Toms  alike  ?  " 

"  Ah,"  said  Vincent,  "  I  know  him  well  :  he  is  a  clever, 
shrewd  fellow,  but  a  most  unmitigated  rascal.  He  is  the  son 
of  a  steward  in  Lancashire,  and  received  an  attorney's  educa- 
tion ;  but  being  a  humorous,  noisy  fellow,  he  became  a  great, 
favorite  with  his  father's  employer,  who  was  a  sort  of  Maecenas 
to  cudgel-players,  boxers,  and  horse-jockeys.  At  his  house 
Thornton  met  many  persons  of  rank,  but  of  a  taste  similar  to 
their  host's  :  and  they,  mistaking  his  vulgar  coarseness  for  hon- 
esty, and  his  quaint  proverbs  for  wit,  admitted  him  into  their 
society.  It  was  with  one  of  them  that  I  have  seen  him.  I  be- 
lieve of  late  that  his  character  has  been  of  a  very  indifferent 
odor  :  and  whatever  has  brought  him  among  the  English  at  Paris 
— those  whitewashed  abominations — those  '  innocent  black- 
nesses,' as  Charles  Lamb  calls  chimney-sweepers,  it  does  not 
argue  well  for  his  professional  occupations.  I  should  think, 
however,  that  he  manages  to  live  here  ;  for  wherever  there  are 
English  fools,  there  are  fine  pickings  for  an  English  rogue." 

"Ay,"  said  I,  "but  are  there  enough  fools  here  to  feed  the 
rogues  ?  " 

"  Yes,  because  rogues  are  like  spiders,  and  eat  each  other,  when 
there  is  nothing  else  to  catch  ;  and  Tom  Thornton  is  safe  as 


6k,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          75 

long  as  the  ordinary  law  of  nature  lasts,  that  the  greater  knave 
preys  on  the  lesser,— for  there  cannot  possibly  be  a  greater 
knave  than  he  is  !  If  you  have  made  his  acquaintance,  my 
dear  Pelham,  I  advise  you  most  soberly  to  look  to  yourself,  for 
if  he  doth  not  steal,  beg,  or  borrow  of  you,  Mr.  Howard  de 
Howard  will  grow  fat,  and  even  Mr.  Aberton  cease  to  be  a  fool. 
And  now,  most  noble  Pelham,  farewell.  //  est plus  aist  d'etre 
sage  pour  les  autres  que  de  I' fare  pour  soi-  meme."  * 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

"  This  is  a  notable  couple — and  have  met 
But  for  some  secret  knavery." — The    Tanner  of  Tyburn. 

I  HAD  now  been  several  weeks  in  Paris,  and  I  was  not  alto- 
gether dissatisfied  with  the  manner  in  which  they  had  been 
spent.  I  had  enjoyed  myself  to  the  utmost,  while  I  had,  as 
much  as  possible,  combined  profit  with  pleasure  ;  viz.,  if  I  went 
to  the  Opera  in  the  evening,  I  learned  to  dance  in  the  morn- 
ing ;  if  I  drove  to  a  soiree  at  the  Duchesse  de  Perpignan's,  it 
was  not  till  I  had  fenced  an  hour  at  the  Salon  des  Assauts 
(fArmes;  in  short,  I  took  the  greatest  pains  to  complete  my 
education.  I  wish  all  young  men  who  frequented  the  Conti- 
nent for  that  purpose  could  say  the  same. 

One  day  (about  a  week  after  the  conversation  with  Vincent 
recorded  in  my  last  chapter)  I  was  walking  slowly  along  one  of 
the  paths  in  the  Jar  din  des  Plantes,  meditating  upon  the  various 
excellences  of  the  Rocher  de  Cancale  and  the  Duchesse  de  Per- 
pignan,  when  I  perceived  a  tall  man,  with  a  thick,  rough  coat, 
of  a  dark  color  (which  I  recognized  long  before  I  did  the  face 
of  the  wearer)  emerging  from  an  intersecting  path.  He  stopped 
a  few  moments,  and  looked  round  as  if  expecting  some  one. 
Presently  a  woman,  apparently  about  thirty,  and  meanly  dressed, 
appeared  in  an  opposite  direction.  She  approached  him  ;  they 
exchanged  a  few  words,  and  then,  the  woman  taking  his  arm, 
they  struck  into  another  path,  and  were  soon  out  of  sight.  I 
suppose  that  the  reader  has  already  discovered  that  this  man 
was  Thornton's  companion  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  and  the 
hero  of  the  gaming-house  in  the  Palais  Royal.  I  could  not 
have  supposed  that  so  noble  a  countenance,  even  in  its  frowns, 
could  ever  have  wasted  its  smiles  upon  a  mistress  of  the  low 

*  It  is  more  easy  to  be  wise  for  others  than  for  oneself. 


76  PELHAM  ; 

station  to  which  the  woman  who  had  met  him  evidently  be- 
longed.  However,  we  all  have  our  little  foibles,  as  the  French- 
man said  when  he  boiled  his  grandmother's  head  in  a  pipkin. 

I  myself  was,  at  that  time,  the  sort  of  person  that  is  always 
taken  by  a  pretty  face,  however  coarse  may  be  the  garments 
which  set  it  off  ;  and  although  I  cannot  say  that  I  ever  stooped 
so  far  as  to  become  amorous  of  a  chambermaid,  yet  I  could  be 
tolerably  lenient  to  any  man  under  thirty  who  did.  As  a  proof 
of  this  gentleness  of  disposition,  ten  minutes  after  I  had  wit- 
nessed so  unsuitable  a  rencontre  I  found  myself  following  a 
pretty  little  grisette  into  a  small  sort  of  cabaret,  which  was,  at 
the  time  I  speak  of  (and  most  probably  still  is),  in  the  midst 
of  the  gardens.  I  sat  down  and  called  for  my  favorite  drink 
of  lemonade  ;  the  little  grisette,  who  was  with  an  old  woman, 
possibly  her  mother,  and  un  beau  gros  garfon,  probably  her 
lover,  sat  opposite,  and  began,  with  all  the  ineffable  coquetries 
of  her  country,  to  divide  her  attention  between  the  said  garfon 
and  myself.  Poor  fellow,  he  seemed  to  be  very  little  pleased 
by  the  significant  glances  exchanged  over  his  right  shoulder, 
and  at  last,  under  pretence  of  screening  her  from  the  draught 
of  the  opened  window,  placed  himself  exactly  between  us. 
This,  however  ingenious,  did  not  at  all  answer  his  expecta- 
tions ;  for  he  had  not  sufficiently  taken  into  consideration  that 
/  also  was  endowed  with  the  power  of  locomotion  ;  accord- 
ingly I  shifted  my  chair  about  three  feet,  and  entirely  defeated 
the  countermarch  of  the  enemy. 

But  this  flirtation  did  not  last  long  :  the  youth  and  the  old 
w«man  appeared  very  much  of  the  same  opinion  as  to  its  im- 
propriety ;  and  accordingly,  like  experienced  generals,  resolved 
to  conquer  by  a  retreat  ;  they  drank  up  their  orgeat,  paid  for 
it,  placed  the  wavering  regiment  in  the  middle,  and  quitted  the 
field.  I  was  not,  however,  of  a  disposition  to  break  my  heart 
at  such  an  occurrence,  and  I  remained  by  the  window,  drink- 
ing my  lemonade,  and  muttering  to  myself,  "  After  all,  women 
are  a  bore  !  " 

On  the  outside  of  the  cabaret,  and  just  under  my  window, 
was  a  bench,  which,  for  a  certain  number  of  sous,  one  might 
appropriate  to  the  entire  and  unparticipated  use  of  one's  self 
and  party.  An  old  woman  (so  at  least  I  suppose  by  her  voice, 
for  I  did  not  give  myself  the  trouble  of  looking, — though,  in- 
deed, as  to  that  matter,  it  might  have  been  the  shrill  treble  of 
Mr.  Howard  de  Howard  !)  had  been  hitherto  engrossing  this 
settlement  with  some  gallant  or  other.  In  Paris  no  woman  is 
too  old  to  get  an  amant,  either  by  love  or  money.  This  couple 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OP  A  GENTLEMAN.          77 

soon  paired  off,  and  was  immediately  succeeded  by  another. 
The  first  tones  of  the  man's  voice,  low  as  they  were,  made  me 
start  from  my  seat.  I  cast  one  quick  glance  before  I  resumed 
it.  The  new  pair  were  the  Englishman  I  had  before  noted  in 
the  garden,  and  the  female  companion  who  had  joined  him. 

"  Two  hundred  pounds,  you  say  ? "  muttered  the  man  ;  "  we 
must  have  it  all." 

"  But,"  answered  the  woman,  in  the  same  whispered  voice, 
"  he  says  that  he  will  never  touch  another  card." 

The  man  laughed.  "  Fool,"  said  he,  "the  passions  are  not 
so  easily  quelled — how  many  days  is  it  since  he  had  this  remit- 
tance from  England  ?  " 

"About  three,"  replied  the  woman. 

"  And  is  it  absolutely  the  very  last  remnant  of  his  property  ?l 

"  The  last." 

"  I  am  then  to  understand,  that  when  this  is  spent  there  is 
nothing  between  him  and  beggary?" 

"  Nothing,"  said  the  woman,  with  a  half-sigh. 

The  man  laughed  again,  and  then  rejoined  in  an  altered 
tone:  "Then,  then  will  this  parching  thirst  be  quenched  at 
last.  I  tell  you,  woman,  that  it  is  many  months  since  I  have 
known  a  day — night — hour,  in  which  my  life  has  been  as  the 
life  of  other  men.  My  whole  soul  has  been  melted  down  into 
one  burning,  burning  thought.  Feel  this  hand — ay,  you  may 
well  start — but  what  is  the  fever  of  the  frame  to  that  within  ?  " 

Here  the  voice  sank  so  low  as  to  be  inaudible.  The  woman 
seemed  as  if  endeavoring  to  soothe  him  ;  at  length  she  said  : 

"  But  poor  Tyrrell— you  will  not,  surely,  suffer  him  to  starve, 
of  actual  want,  abandoned  and  alone  !  " 

"  Alone  !  no  !  "  cried  her  companion  fiercely.  "  When  the 
last  agonies  shall  be  upon  that  man  ;  when,  sick  with  weari- 
ness, pain,  disease,  hunger  he  lies  down  to  die  ;  when  the 
death-gurgle  is  in  the  throat,  and  the  eye  swims  beneath  the 
last  dull  film  ;  when  remembrance  peoples  the  chamber  with 
Hell,  and  his  cowardice  would  falter  forth  its  dastard  recanta- 
tion to  Heaven — then — may  I  be  there  !  '  ' 

There  was  a  'long  pause,  only  broken  by  the  woman's  sobs, 
which  she  appeared  endeavoring  to  stifle.  At  last  the  man 
rose,  and  in  a  tone  so  soft  that  it  seemed  literally  like  music, 
addressed  her  in  the  most  endearing  terms.  She  soon  yielded 
to  their  persuasion,  and  replied  to  them  with  interest. 

"  Spite  of  the  stings  of  my  remorse,"  she  said,  "  as  long  as  I 
lose  not  you,  I  will  lose  life,  honor,  hope,  even  soul  itself  !." 

They  both  quitted  the  spot  as  she  said  this. 


78  PfcLHAM 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

"  At  length  the  treacherous  snare  was  laid, 
Poor  Pug  was  caught — to  town  convey 'd  ; 
There  sold.     How  envied  was  his  doom, 
Made  captive  in  a  lady's  room. — GAY'S  Fables. 

I  WAS  sitting  alone  a  morning  or  two  after  this  adventure, 
when  Bedos,  entering,  announced  une  dame. 

This  dame  was  a  fine,  tall  thing,  dressed  out  like  a  print  in 
the  Magasin  des  Modes.  She  sate  herself  down,  threw  up  her 
veil,  and,  after  a  momentary  pause,  asked  me  if  I  liked  my 
apartment? 

"  Very  much,"  said  I,  somewhat  surprised  at  the  nature  of 
the  interrogatory. 

"  Perhaps  you  would  wish  it  altered  in  some  way  ?"  rejoined 
the  lady. 

"  Non — mille  remercimens  !  "  said  I — "  you  are  very  good  to 
be  so  interested  in  my  accommodation." 

"  Those  curtains  might  be  better  arranged  ;  that  sofa  re- 
placed with  a  more  elegant  one,"  continued  my  new  superin- 
tendent. 

"Really,"  said  I,  "I  am  too,  too  much  flattered.  Perhaps 
you  would  like  to  have  my  rooms  altogether  ;  if  so,  make  at 
least  no  scruple  of  saying  it." 

"  Oh,  no,"  replied  the  lady,  "  I  have  no  objection  to  your 
staying  here." 

"  You  are  too  kind,"  said  I,  with  a  low  bow. 

There  was  a  pause  of  some  moments  ;  I  took  advantage 
of  it. 

"I  think,  madame,  I  have  the  honor  of  speaking  to — to — 
to—" 

"  The  mistress  of  the  hotel,"  said  the  lady  quietly.  "  I 
merely  called  to  ask  you  how  you  did,  and  hope  you  were  well 
accommodated." 

"  Rather  late,  considering  I  have  been  six  weeks  in  the 
house,"  thought  I  revolving  in  my  mind  various  reports  I  had 
heard  of  my  present  visitor's  disposition  to  gallantry.  How- 
ever, seeing  it  was  all  over  with  me,  I  resigned  myself,  with  the 
patience  of  a  martyr,  to  the  fate  that  I  foresaw ;  I  rose, 
approached  her  chair,  took  her  hand  (very  hard  and  thin  it 
was  too),  and  thanked  her  with  a  most  affectionate  squeeze. 

"  I  have  seen  much  English  !  "  said  the  lady,  for  the  first 
time  speaking  in  our  language. 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          7$ 

"Ah  !  "  said  I,  giving  another  squeeze. 

"  You  are  a  handsome  garfon"  renewed  the  lady. 

"I  am  so,"  I  replied. 

At  that  moment  Bedos  entered,  and  whispered  that  Madame 
d'Anville  was  in  the  ante-room. 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  said  I,  knowing  her  jealousy  of  disposi- 
tion, ''  what  is  to  be  done  ?  Oblige  me,  madame,"  seizing  the 
unfortunate  mistress  of  the  hotel,  and  opening  the  door  to  the 
back  entrance.  "  There,"  said  I,  "  you  can  easily  escape. 
Bon  jour ." 

Hardly  had  I  closed  the  door,  and  put  the  key  in  my  pocket, 
before  Madame  d'Anville  entered. 

"Is  it  by  your  order  that  your  servant  keeps  me  waiting  in 
your  ante-room  ?'1  said  she  haughtily. 

I  endeavored  to  make  my  peace  ;  but  all  my  complaisance 
was  in  vain  ;  she  was  jealous  of  my  intimacy  with  the  Duchesse 
de  Perpignan  and  glad  of  any  excuse  to  vent  her  pique.  For- 
tunately, however,  she  was  going  to  the  Luxembourg;  and  my 
only  chance  of  soothing  her  anger  was  to  accompany  her. 

Downstairs,  therefore,  we  went,  and  drove  to  the  Luxem- 
bourg ;  I  gave  Bedos,  before  my  departure,  various  little  com- 
missions, and  told  him  he  need  not  be  at  home  till  the  evening. 
Long  before  the  expiration  of  an  hour  Madame  d'Anville's  ill 
humor  had  given  me  an  excuse  for  affecting  it  myself.  Tired 
to  death  of  her,  and  panting  for  release,  I  took  a  high  tone — • 
complained  of  her  ill-temper,  and  her  want  of  love — spoke 
rapidly — waited  for  no  reply,  and,  leaving  her  at  the  Luxem- 
bourg, proceeded  forthwith  to  Galignani's,  like  a  man  just 
delivered  from  a  strait  waistcoat. 

Leave  me  now,  for  a  few  minutes,  in  the  reading-room  at 
Galignani's,  and  return  to  the  mistress  of  the  hotel,  whom  I 
had  so  unceremoniously  thrust  out  of  my  salon.  The  passage 
into  which  she  had  been  put  communicated  by  one  door  with 
my  rooms,  and  by  another  with  the  staircase.  Now  it  so  hap- 
pened that  Bedos  was  in  the  habit  of  locking  the  latter  door,  and 
keeping  the  key  ;  the  other  egress,  it  will  be  remembered,  I 
myself  had  secured  ;  so  that  the  unfortunate  mistress  of  the 
hotel  was  no  sooner  turned  into  this  passage  than  she  found 
herself  in  a  sort  of  dungeon,  ten  feet  by  five,  and  surrounded, 
like  Eve  in  Paradise,  by  a  whole  creation — not  of  birds,  beasts, 
and  fishes,  but  of  brooms,  brushes,  linen  for  the  laundress, 
and — a  wood  basket !  What  she  was  to  do  in  this  dilemma 
was  utterly  inconceivable  ;  scream,  indeed,  she  might,  but 
then  the  shame  and  ridicule  of  being  discovered  in  so  equivo- 


cal  a  situation  were  somewhat  more  than  our  discreet  landlady 
could  endure.  Besides,  such  an  expost  might  be  attended  with 
a  loss  the  good  woman  valued  more  than  reputation,  viz., 
lodgers  ;  for  the  possessors  of  the  two  best  floors  were  both 
Englishwomen  of  a  certain  rank  ;  and  my  landlady  had  heard 
such  accounts  of  our  national  virtue  that  she  feared  an  instan- 
taneous emigration  of  such  inveterate  prudes,  if  her  screams 
and  situation  reached  their  ears. 

Quietly  then,  and  soberly,  did  the  good  lady  sit,  eyeing  the 
brooms  and  brushes  as  they  grew  darker  and  darker  with  the 
approach  of  the  evening,  and  consoling  herself  with  the  cer- 
tainty that  her  release  must  eventually  take  place. 

Meanwhile,  to  return  to  myself.  I  found  Lord  Vincent  at 
Galignani's,  carefully  looking  over  "Choice  Extracts  from  the 
best  English  Authors." 

"Ah,  my  good  fellow!"  said  he,  "I  am  delighted  to  see 
you  :  I  made  such  a  capital  quotation  just  now  :  the  young 
Benningtons  were  drowning  a  poor  devil  of  a  puppy  ;  the 
youngest  (to  whom  the  mother  belonged)  looked  on  with  a 
grave,  earnest  face,  till  the  last  kick  was  over,  and  then  burst 
into  tears.  '  Why  do  you  cry  so  ? '  said  I.  '  Because  it  was  so 
cruel  in  us  to  drown  the  poor  puppy !  '  replied  the  juvenile 
Philocunos.  '  Pooh  ! '  said  I  ;  "  Quid  juvat  errores  mersdjam 
puppe  fateri  ?  "  Was  it  not  good  ?  You  remember  it  in  Clau- 
dian,  eh,  Pelham  ?  Think  of  its  being  thrown  away  on  those 
Latinless  young  lubbers  !  Have  you  seen  anything  of  Mr. 
Thornton  lately  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  I,  "  I've  not ;  but  I  am  determined  to  have  that 
pleasure  soon." 

"  You  will  do  as  you  please,"  said  Vincent,  "but  you  will  be 
like  the  child  playing  with  edged  tools." 

"  I  am  not  a  child,"  said  I,  "  so  the  simile  is  not  good.  He 
must  be  the  devil  himself,  or  a  Scotchman  at  least,  to  take 
me  in." 

Vincent  shook  his  head.  "  Come  and  dine  with  me  at  the 
Rocher,"  said  he  ;  "  we  are  a  party  of  six — choice  spirits  all." 

"Volontiers  ;  but  we  can  stroll  in  the  Tuileries  first,  if  you 
have  no  other  engagement." 

"  None,"  said  Vincent,  putting  his  arm  in  mine. 

After  an  hour's  walk  Vincent  suddenly  recollected  that  he 
had  a  commission  of  a  very  important  nature  in  the  Rue  J.  J. 
Rousseau.  This  was — to  buy  a  monkey.  "It  is  for  Wormwood," 
said  he,  "  who  has  written  me  a  long  letter,  describing  its 
qualities  and  qualifications.  I  suppose  he  wants  it  for  some 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          Si 

practical  joke — some  embodied  bitterness.     Heaven  forbid  I 
should  thwart  him  in  so  charitable  a  design  !  " 

"Amen,"  said  I  ;  and  we  proceeded  together  to  the  monkey- 
fancier.  After  much  deliberation,  we  at  last  decided  upon  the 
most  hideous  animal  I  ever  beheld — it  was  of  a — no,  I  will  not 
attempt  to  describe  it,  it  would  be  quite  impossible  !  Vincent 
was  so  delighted  with  our  choice,  that  he  insisted  upon  carry- 
ing it  away  immediately. 

"  Is  it  quite  quiet  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Comme  un  oiseau"  said  the  man. 

We  called  &  fiacre,  paid  for  monsieur  Jocko,  and  drove  to 
Vincent's  apartments  ;  there  we  found,  however,  that  his  valet 
had  gone  out  and  taken  the  key. 

"  Hang  it,"  said  Vincent,  "  it  does  not  signify  !  We'll  carry 
le petit-monsieur  with  us  to  the  Rocher." 

Accordingly  we  all  three  once  more  entered  the  fiacre,  and  drove 
to  the  celebrated  restaurateur's  of  the  Rue  Mont  Orgueil.  O, 
blissful  recollections  of  that  dinner  !  How  at  this  moment 
you  crowd  upon  my  delighted  remembrance  !  Lonely  and 
sorrowful  as  I  now  sit,  digesting  with  many  a  throe  the  iron 
thews  of  a  British  beefsteak — more  Anglico — immeasurably 
tough — I  see  the  grateful  apparitions  of  JEscallopes  de  Saumon 
and  Laitances  de  Carpes  rise  in  a  gentle  vapor  before  my  eyes  ! 
breathing  a  sweet  and  pleasant  odor,  and  contrasting  the 
dream-like  delicacies  of  their  hue  and  aspect  with  the  dire  and 
dure  realities  which  now  weigh  so  heavily  on  the  region  below 
my  heart !  And  thou,  most  beautiful  of  all — thou  evening  star 
of  entremets — thou  that  delightest  in  truffles,  and  gloriest  in  a 
dark  cloud  of  sauces — exquisite  foie  gras!  Have  I  forgotten 
thee  ?  Do  I  not,  on  the  contrary,  see  thee — smell  thee — taste 
thee — and  almost  die  with  rapture  of  thy  possession  ?  What 
though  the  goose,  of  which  thou  art  a  part,  has,  indeed,  been 
roasted  alive  by  a  slow  fire,  in  order  to  increase  thy  divine  pro- 
portions— y^t  has  not  our  Almanack — the  Almanack  des  Gour- 
mands— truly  declared  that  the  goose  rejoiced  amid  all  her 
tortures — because  of  the  glory  that  awaited  her  ?  Did  she  not,  in 
prophetic  vision,  behold  her  enlarged  and  ennobled  foie  dilate 
into  pates  and  steam  into  saute's — the  companion  of  truffles — 
the  glory  of  dishes — the  delight — the  treasure — the  transport 
of  gourmands  !  O,  exalted  among  birds — apotheosized  goose, 
did  not  thy  heart  exalt  even  when  thy  liver  parched  and  swelled 
within  thee,  from  that  most  agonizing  death  ;  and  didst  thou 
not,  like  the  Indian  at  the  stake,  triumph  in  the  very  torments 
which  alone  could  render  thee  illustrious  ? 


82  PELHAM  J 

After  dinner  we  grew  exceedingly  merry.  Vincent  punned 
and  quoted;  we  laughed  and  applauded;  and  our  Burgundy 
went  round  with  an  alacrity  to  which  every  new  joke  gave  an 
additional  impetus.  Monsieur  Jocko  was  by  no  means  the 
dullest  in  the  party  ;  he  cracked  his  nuts  with  as  much  grace 
as  we  did  our  jests,  and  grinned  and  chattered  as  facetiously 
as  the  best  of  us.  After  coffee  we  were  all  so  pleased  with  one 
another  that  we  resolved  not  to  separate,  and  accordingly  we 
adjourned  to  my  rooms,  Jocko  and  all,  to  find  new  revelries 
and  grow  brilliant  over  Curapoa  punch. 

We  entered  my  salon  with  a  roar,  and  set  Bedos  to  work  at 
the  punch  forthwith.  Bedos,  that  Ganymede  of  a  valet,  had 
himself  but  just  arrived,  and  was  unlocking  the  door  as  we 
entered.  We  soon  blew  up  a  glorious  fire,  and  our  spirits 
brightened  in  proportion.  Monsieur  Jocko  sate  on  Vincent's 
knee — "  Ne  monstrum,"  as  he  classically  termed  it.  One  of 
our  compotatores  was  playing  with  it.  Jocko  grew  suddenly 
in  earnest — a  grin — a  scratch,  and  a  bite,  were  the  work  of  a 
moment. 

"  Ne  quid  nimis — now,"  said  Vincent  gravely,  instead  of 
endeavoring  to  soothe  the  afflicted  party,  who  grew  into  a 
towering  passion.  Nothing  but  Jocko's  absolute  disgrace 
could  indeed  have  saved  his  life  from  the  vengeance  of  the 
sufferer. 

"  Whither  shall  we  banish  him?"  said  Vincent. 

*'  Oh,"  I  replied,  "  put  him  out  in  that  back  passage  ;  the 
outer  door  is  shut ;  he'll  be  quite  safe  ";  and  to  the  passage  he 
was  therefore  immediately  consigned. 

It  was  in  this  place,  the  reader  will  remember,  that  the 
hapless  dame  du  chdteau  was  at  that  very  instant  in  "durance 
vile."  Unconscious  of  this  fact,  I  gave  Bedos  the  key  ;  he 
took  the  condemned  monkey,  opened  the  door,  thrust  Jocko 
in,  and  closed  it  again.  Meanwhile  we  resumed  our  merri- 
ment. 

"  Nunc  est  bibendum"  said  Vincent,  as  Bedos  placed  the 
punch  on  the  table.  "  Give  us  a  toast,  Dartmore." 

Lord  Dartmore  was  a  young  man,  with  tremendous  spirits, 
which  made  up  for  wit.  He  was  just  about  to  reply,  when  a 
loud  shriek  was  heard  from  Jocko's  place  of  banishment :  a 
sort  of  scramble  ensued,  and  the  next  moment  the  door  was 
thrown  violently  open,  and  in  rushed  the  terrified  landlady, 
screaming  like  a  sea-gull,  and  bearing  Jocko  aloft  upon  her 
shoulders,  from  which  "bad  eminence  "  he  was  grinning  and 
chattering  with  the  fury  of  fifty  devils.,  She  ran  twice,  round 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.  83 

the  room,  and  then  sank  on  the  floor  in  hysterics,  feigned  or 
real.  We  lost  no  time  in  hastening  to  her  assistance  ;  but  the 
warlike  Jocko,  still  sitting  upon  her,  refused  to  permit  one  of 
us  to  approach.  There  he  sat,  turning  from  side  to  side, 
showing  his  sharp,  white  teeth,  and  uttering  from  time  to  time 
the  most  menacing  and  diabolical  sounds. 

"  What  the  deuce  shall  we  do  ?"  cried  Dartmore. 

" Do?"  said  Vincent,  who  was  convulsed  with  laughter,  and 
yet  endeavoring  to  speak  gravely ;  "  why,  watch  like  L. 
Opimius,  '  ne  quid  respublica  detriments  caperet' " 

"By  Jove,  Pelham,  he  will  scratch  out  the  lady's  beaux  yeux" 
cried  the  good-natured  Dartmore,  endeavoring  to  seize  the 
monkey  by  the  tail,  for  which  he  very  narrowly  escaped  with 
an  unmutilated  visage.  But  the  man  who  had  before  suffered 
by  Jocko's  ferocity,  and  whose  breast  was  still  swelling  with  re- 
venge, was  glad  of  so  favorable  an  opportunity  and  excuse  for 
wreaking  it.  He  seized  the  poker,  made  three  strides  to 
Jocko,  who  set  up  an  ineffable  cry  of  defiance — and  with  a  sin- 
gle  blow  split  the  skull  of  the  unhappy  monkey  in  twain.  It 
fell  with  one  convulsion  on  the  ground  and  gave  up  the  ghost. 

We  then  raised  the  unfortunate  landlady,  placed  her  on  the 
sofa,  and  Dartmore  administered  a  plentiful  potation  of  the  Cu- 
racoa  punch.  By  slow  degrees  she  revived,  gave  three  most 
doleful  suspirations,  and  then,  starting  up,  gazed  wildly  around 
her.  Half  of  us  were  still  laughing — my  unfortunate  self 
among  the  number ;  this  the  enraged  landlady  no  sooner  per- 
ceived than  she  imagined  herself  the  victim  of  some  precon- 
certed villany.  Her  lips  .trembled  with  passion  ;  she  uttered 
the  most  dreadful  imprecations  ;  and  had  I  not  retired  into  a 
corner,  and  armed  myself  with  the  dead  body  of  Jocko,  which 
I  wielded  with  exceeding  valor,  she  might,  with  the  simple 
weapons  with  which  nature  had  provided  her  hands,  have  for- 
ever demolished  the  loves  and  graces  that  abide  in  the  face  of 
Henry  Pelham. 

When  at  last  she  saw  that  nothing  hostile  was  at  present  to 
be  effected,  she  drew  herself  up,  and  giving  Bedos  a  tremendous 
box  on  the  ear,  as  he  stood  grinning  beside  her,  marched  out 
of  the  room. 

We  then  again  rallied  around  the  table,  more  than  ever  dis- 
posed to  be  brilliant,  and  kept  up'  till  daybreak  a  continued 
fire  of  jests  upon  the  heroine  of  the  passage  :  "  cum  qud  (as  Vin- 
cent happily  observed)  clauditur  adversis  innoxia  simia  fatis  !  " 


84  PELHAM 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

"  Show  me  not  thy  painted  beauties, 
These  impostures  I  defy." — GEORGE  WITHERS. 

The  cave  of  Falri  smelt  not  more  delicately ;  on  every  side  appeared  the 
marks  of  drunkenness  and  gluttony,  At  the  upper  end  of  the  cave  the  sor- 
cerer lay  extended,"  etc. — Mirglip  the  Persian,  in  the  Tales  of  the  Genii. 

I  WOKE  the  next  morning  with  an  aching  head  and  feverish 
frame.  Ah,  those  midnight  carousals,  how  glorious  they 
would  be  if  there  were  no  next  morning  !  I  took  my  sauterne 
and  soda-water  in  my  dressing-room  :  and,  as  indisposition 
always  makes  me  meditative,  I  thought  over  all  I  had  done 
since  my  arrival  at  Paris.  I  had  become  (that,  Heaven  knows, 
I  soon  manage  to  do)  rather  a  talked-of  and  noted  character. 
It  is  true  that  I  was  everywhere  abused — one  found  fault  with 
my  neckcloth,  another  with  my  mind— the  lank  Mr.  Aberton 
declared  that  I  put  my  hair  in  papers,  and  the  stuffed  Sir 
Henry  Millington  said  I  was  a  thread-paper  myself.  One 
blamed  my  riding,  a*  second  my  dancing,  a  third  wondered 
how  any  woman  could  like  me,  and  a  fourth  said  that  no 
woman  ever  could. 

On  one  point,  however,  all — friends  and  foes — were  alike 
agreed  :  viz.,  that  I  was  a  consummate  puppy,  and  excessively 
well  satisfied  with  myself.  Perhaps  they  were  not  much  mis- 
taken there.  Why  is  it,  by  the  by,  that  to  be  pleased  with  one- 
self is  the  surest  way  of  offending  everybody  else  ?  If  any 
one,  male  or  female,  an  evident  admirer  of  his  or  her  own 
perfections,  enter  a  room,  how  perturbed,  restless,  and  un- 
happy every  individual  of  the  offender's  sex  instantly  becomes  : 
for  them  not  only  enjoyment  but  tranquillity  is  over,  and  if 
they  could  annihilate  the  unconscious  victim  of  their  spleen,  I 
fully  believe  no  Christian  toleration  would  come  in  the  way  of 
that  last  extreme  of  animosity.  For  a  coxcomb  there  is  no 
mercy,  for  a  coquette  no  pardon.  They  are,  as  it  were,  the 
dissenters  of  society ;  no  crime  is  too  bad  to  be  imputed  to 
them  ;  they  do  not  believe  the  religion  of  others — they  set  up 
a  deity  of  their  own  vanity — all  the  orthodox  vanities  of  others 
are  offended.  Then  comes  the  bigotry,  the  stake,  the  auto-da- 
fe  of  scandal.  What,  alas  !  is  so  implacable  as  the  rage  of 
vanity  ?  What  so  restless  as  its  persecution  ?  Take  from  a 
man  his  fortune,  his  house,  his  reputation,  but  flatter  his  vanity 
in  each,  and  he  will  forgive  you.  Heap  upon  him  benefits,  fill 
him  with  blessings :  but  irritate  his  self-love,  and  you  have 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN          85 

made  the  very  best  man  ungrateful.  He  will  sting  you  if  he 
can  :  you  cannot  blame  him  ;  you  yourself  have  instilled  the 
venom.  This  is  one  reason  why  you  must  rarely  reckon  upon 
gratitude  in  conferring  an  obligation.  It  is  a  very  high  mind 
to  which  gratitude  is  not  a  painful  sensation.  If  you  wish  to 
please,  you  will  find  it  wiser  to  receive — solicit  even — favors, 
than  accord  them  :  for  the  vanity  of  the  obliger  is  always  flat- 
tered, that  of  the  obligee  rarely. 

Well,  this  is  an  unforeseen  digression  ;  let  me  return  !  I 
had  mixed,  of  late,  very  little  with  the  English.  My  mother's 
introduction  had  procured  me  the  entree  of  the  best  French 
houses  ;  and  to  them,  therefore,  my  evenings  were  usually  de- 
voted. Alas  !  that  was  a  happy  time,  when  my  carriage  used  to 
await  me  at  the  door  of  the  Rocher  de  Cancale,  and  then  whirl 
me  to  a  succession  of  visits,  varying  in  their  degree  and  nature 
as  the  whim  prompted  :  now  to  the  brilliant  soirees  of  Madame  de 

,  or  to  the  appartement  au  troistime  of  some  less  celebrated 

daughter  of  dissipation  and  ecarte1 ;  now  to  the  literary  conver- 
saziones of  the  Duchess  de  D s,  or  the  Vicomte  d' , 

and  then  to  the  feverish  excitement  of  the  gambling-house. 
Passing  from  each  with  the  appetite  for  amusement  kept  alive 
by  variety  ;  finding  in  none  a  disappointment,  and  in  every  one 
a  welcome  ;  full  of  the  health  which  supports,  and  the  youth 
which  colors,  all  excess  or  excitement,  I  drained  with  an  un- 
sparing lip  whatever  enjoyment  that  enchanting  metropolis 
could  afford. 

I  have  hitherto  said  but  little  of  the  Duchesse  de  Perpignan  ; 
I  think  it  necessary  now  to  give  some  account  of  that  person- 
age. Ever  since  the  evening  I  had  met  her  at  the  ambassa- 
dor's I  paid  her  the  most  unceasing  attentions.  I  soon  dis- 
covered that  she  had  a  curious  sort  of  liaison  with  one  of  the 
attache's — a  short,  ill-made  gentleman,  with  high  shoulders  and 
a  pale  face,  who  wore  a  blue  coat  and  buff  waistcoat,  wrote  bad 
verses,  and  thought  himself  handsome.  All  Paris  said  she  was 
excessively  enamoured  of  this  youth.  As  for  me,  I  had  not 
known  her  four  days  before  I  discovered  that  she  could  not  be 
excessively  enamoured  of  anything  but  an  oyster /a/^  and  Lord 
Byron's  "  Corsair."  Her  mind  was  the  most  marvellous  »//- 
lange  of  sentiment  and  its  opposite.  In  her  amours  she  was 
Lucretia  herself ;  in  her  epicurism  Apicius^would  have  yielded 
to  her.  She  was  pleased  with  sighs,  but  she  adored  suppers. 
She  would  leave  everything  for  her  lover,  except  her  dinner. 
The  attach^  soon  quarrelled  with  her,  and  I  was  installed  into 
the  platonic  honors  of  his  office- 


86  JPELHAM  ; 

At  first  1  own  I  was  flattered  by  her  choice,  and  though  she 
was  terribly  exacting  of  my  petits  soins,  I  managed  to  keep  up 
her  affection,  and,  what  is  still  more  wonderful,  my  own,  for 
the  better  part  of  a  month.  What  then  cooled  me  was  the 
following  occurrence  : 

I  was  in  her  boudoir  one  evening  when  her  femme  de  chambre 
came  to  tell  us  that  the  Due  was  in  the  passage.  Notwith- 
standing the  innocence  of  our  attachment,  the  Duchesse  was 
in  a  violent  fright ;  a  small  door  was  at  the  left  of  the  otto- 
man, on  which  we  were  sitting.  "  Oh,  no,  no,  not  there,"  cried 
the  lady  ;  but  I,  who  saw  no  other  refuge,  entered  it  forthwith, 
and  before  she  could  ferret  me  out,  the  Due  was  in  the  room. 

In  the  mean  while,  I  amused  myself  by  examining  the  won- 
ders of  the  new  world  into  which  I  had  so  abruptly  immerged  : 
on  a  small  table  before  me  was  deposited  a  remarkably  con- 
structed night-cap  ;  I  examined  it  as  a  curiosity  ;  on  each  side 
was  placed  une  petite  cotelette  de  veau  cru,  sewed  on  with  green- 
colored  silk  (I  remember  even  the  smallest  minutias)  ;  a  beau- 
tiful golden  wig  (the  Duchesse  never  liked  me  to  play  with  her 
hair)  was  on  a  block  close  by,  and  on  another  table  was  a  set 
of  teeth,  (Tune  blancheur  eblouissante.  In  this  manufactory  of 
a  beauty  I  remained  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  ;  at  the  end  of 
that  time,  the  abigail  (the  Duchesse  had  the  grace  to  disappear) 
released  me,  and  I  flew  downstairs  like  a  spirit  from  purgatory. 

From  that  moment  the  Duchesse  honored  me  with  her  most 
deadly  abhorrence.  Equally  silly  and  wicked,  her  schemes  of 
revenge  were  as  ludicrous  in  their  execution  as  remorseless  in 
their  design  :  at  one  time  I  narrowly  escaped  poison  in  a  cup 
of  coffee  ;  at  another  she  endeavored  to  stab  me  to  the  heart 
with  a  paper-cutter. 

Notwithstanding  my  preservation  from  these  attacks,  my  fair 
enemy  had  resolved  on  my  destruction,  and  another  means  of 
attempting  it  still  remained,  which  the  reader  will  yet  have  the 
pleasure  of  learning. 

Mr.  Thornton  had  called  upon  me  twice,  and  twice  I  had  re- 
turned the  visit,  but  neither  of  us  had  been  at  home  to  benefit 
by  these  reciprocities  of  politeness.  His  acquaintance  with  my 
mysterious  hero  of  the  gambling-house  and  the  Jardin  des 
Plantes,  and  the  keen  interest  I  took,  in  spite  of  myself,  in  that 
unaccountable  person,  whom  I  was  persuaded  I  had  seen  before 
in  some  very  different  scene,  and  under  very  different  circum- 
stances, made  me  desirous  to  improve  an  acquaintance  which, 
from  Vincent's  detail,  I  should  otherwise  have  been  anxious  to 
avoid.  I  therefore  resolved  to  make  another  attempt  to  find 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          8? 

him  at  home  ;  and  my  headache  being  somewhat  better,  I  took 
my  way  to  his  apartments  in  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain. 

I  love  that  quartier  !  If  ever  I  go  to  Paris  again,  I  shall  re- 
side there.  It  is  a  different  world  from  the  streets  usually 
known  to,  and  tenanted  by,  the  English — there,  indeed,  you 
are  among  the  French,  the  fossilized  remains  of  the  old  regime ; 
the  very  houses  have  an  air  of  desolate,  yet  venerable,  gran- 
deur ;  you  never  pass  by  the  white  and  modern  mansion  of  a 
nouveau  riche ;  all,  even  to  the  ruggedness  of  the/tff'/,  breathes 
a  haughty  disdain  of  innovation.  You  cross  one  of  the  numer- 
ous bridges  and  you  enter  into  another  time — you  are  inhal- 
ing the  atmosphere  of  a  past  century  ;  no  flaunting  boutique, 
French  in  its  trumpery,  English  in  its  prices,  stares  you  in  the 
face  ;  no  stiff  coats  and  unnatural  gaits  are  seen  anglicising  up 
the  melancholy  streets.  Vast  hotels,  with  their  gloomy  front- 
als,  and  magnificent  contempt  of  comfort :  shops,  such  as  shops 
might  have  been  in  the  aristocratic  days  of  Louis  Quatorze, 
ere  British  contamination  made  them  insolent  and  dear  ;  public 
edifices,  still  eloquent  of  the  superb  charities  of  le  grande 
nwnarque  j  carriages  with  their  huge  bodies  and  ample  deco- 
rations ;  horses,  with  their  Norman  dimensions  and  undocked 
honors  ;  men,  on  whose  more  high,  though  not  less  courteous, 
demeanor  the  Revolution  seems  to  have  wrought  no  demo- 
cratic plebeianism — all  strike  on  the  mind  with  a  vague  and 
nameless  impression  of  antiquity  ;  a  something  solemn  even  in 
gaiety,  and  faded  in  pomp,  appears  to  linger  over  all  you  be- 
hold !  there  are  the  Great  French  People  unadulterated  by 
change,  unsullied  with  the  commerce  of  the  vagrant  and  various 
tribes  that  throng  their  mighty  mart  of  enjoyments. 

The  strangers  who  fill  the  quartiers  on  this  side  the  Seine 
pass  not  there  ;  between  them  and  the  Faubourg  there  is  a 
gulf ;  the  very  skies  seem  different — your  own  feelings, 
thoughts,  nature  itself — alter,  when  you  have  passed  that  Styx 
which  divides  the  wanderers  from  the  habitants  ;  your  spirits 
are  not  so  much  damped,  as  tinged,  refined,  ennobled,  by  a 
certain  inexpressible  awe  ;  you  are  girt  with  the  stateliness  of 
eld,  and  you  tread  the  gloomy  streets  with  the  dignity  of  a 
man  who  is  recalling  the  splendors  of  an  ancient  court  where 
he  once  did  homage.* 

I  arrived  at  Thornton's  chambers  in  the  Rue  St.  Dominique. 
"  Monsieur,  est-il  chez  lui  ?  "  said  I  to  the  ancient  porteresjS, 
who  was  reading  one  of  Crebillon's  novels. 

*  It  was  in  1827  that  this  was  first  published  ;  the  glory  (by  this  time)  has  probably  left 
the  Faubourg. 


88  PELHAM  ; 

"  Out',  Monsieur,  au  quatrieme"  was  the  answer.  I  turned  to 
the  dark  and  unclean  staircase,  and,  after  incredible  exertion 
and  fatigue,  arrived  at  last  at  the  elevated  abode  of  Mr. 
Thornton. 

"  JSntrez"  cried  a  voice  in  answer  to  my  rap.  I  obeyed  the 
signal,  and  found  myself  in  a  room  of  tolerable  dimensions  and 
multiplied  utilities.  A  decayed  silk  curtain  of  a  dingy  blue, 
drawn  across  a  recess,  separated  the  chambre  a  coucherirom  the 
salon.  It  was  at  present  only  half  drawn,  and  did  not,  there- 
fore, conceal  the  mysteries  of  the  den  within  ;  the  bed  was  still 
unmade,  and  apparently  of  no  very  inviting  cleanliness ;  a  red 
handkerchief,  that  served  as  a  night-cap,  hung  pendent  from  the 
foot  of  the  bed  :  at  a  little  distance  from  it,  more  towards  the 
pillow,  were  a  shawl,  a  parasol,  and  an  old  slipper.  On  a  table, 
which  stood  between  the  two  dull,  filmy  windows,  were  placed 
a  cracked  bowl,  still  reeking  with  the  lees  of  gin-punch,  two 
bottles  half  full,  a  mouldy  cheese,  and  a  salad  dish  :  on  the 
ground  beneath  the  table  lay  two  huge  books,  and  a  woman's 
bonnet. 

Thornton  himself  sat  by  a  small,  consumptive  fire,  in  an  easy- 
chair  ;  another  table,  still  spread  with  the  appliances  of  break- 
fast, viz.,  a  coffee-pot,  a  milk-jug,  two  cups,  a  broken  loaf,  and 
an  empty  dish,  mingled  with  a  pack  of  cards,  one  dice,  and  an 
open  book  de  mauvais  gout,  stood  immediately  before  him. 

Everything  around  bore  some  testimony  of  low  debauchery  ; 
and  the  man  himself,  with  flushed  and  sensual  countenance,  his 
unwashed  hands,  and  the  slovenly  rakishness  of  his  whole  ap- 
pearance, made  no  unfitting  representation  of  the  genius  loci. 

All  that  I  have  described,  together  with  a  flitting  shadow  of 
feminine  appearance,  escaping  through  another  door,  my  quick 
eye  discovered  in  the  same  instant  that  I  made  my  salutation. 

Thornton  rose,  with  an  air  half  careless  and  half  abashed, 
and  expressed,  in  more  appropriate  terms  than  his  appearance 
warranted,  his  pleasurable  surprise  at  seeing  me  at  last.  There 
was,  however,  a  singularity  in  his  conversation  which  gave  it  an 
air  both  of  shrewdness  and  vulgarity.  This  was,  as  may  before 
have  been  noted,  a  profuse  intermixture  of  proverbs,  some 
stale,  some  new,  some  sensible  enough,  and  all  savoring  of  a 
vocabulary  carefully  eschewed  by  every  man  of  ordinary  re- 
finement in  conversation. 

"I  have  but  a  small  tenement,"  said  he,  smiling;  "but, 
thank  Heaven,  at  Paris  a  man  is  not  made  by  his  lodgings. 
Small  house,  small  care.  Few  garfons  have  indeed  a  more 
sumptuous  apartment  than  myself." 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.  89 

"True,"  said  I  ;  "and  if  I  may  judge  by  the  bottles  on  the 
opposite  table,  and  the  bonnet  beneath  it,  you  find  that  no 
abode  is  too  humble  or  too  exalted  for  the  solace  of  the 
senses." 

"  'Fore  Gad,  you  are  in  the  right,  Mr.  Pelham,"  replied  Thorn- 
ton, with  a  loud,  coarse,  chuckling  laugh,  which,  more  than  a 
year's  conversation  could  have  done,  let  me  into  the  secrets  of  his 
character.  "  I  care  not  a  rush  for  the  decorations  of  the  table, 
so  that  the  cheer  be  good  ;  nor  for  the  gewgaws  of  the  head- 
dress, so  long  as  the  face  is  pretty — '  the  taste  of  the  kitchen  is 

better  than  the  smell.'  Do  you  go  much  to  Madame  B 's 

in  the  Rue  Gretry — eh,  Mr.  Pelham  ?  Ah,  I'll  be  bound 
you  do." 

"No,"  said  I,  with  a  loud  laugh,  but  internal  shiver;  "but 
you  know  where  to  find  le  bon  vin  et  les  jolies  filles.  As  for  me, 
I  am  still  a  stranger  in  Paris,  and  amuse  myself  but  very  indif- 
ferently." 

Thornton's  face  brightened.  "I  tell  you  what,  my  good 
fellow — I  beg  pardon — I  mean  Mr.  Pelham— I  can  show  you 
the  best  sport  in  the  world,  if  you  can  only  spare  me  a  little  of 
your  time — this  very  evening,  perhaps?" 

"  I  fear,"  said  I,  "  I  am  engaged  all  the  present  week ;  but  I 
long  for  nothing  more  than  to  cultivate  an  acquaintance,  Seem- 
ingly so  exactly  to  my  own  taste" 

Thorton's  gray  eyes  twinkled.  "  Will  you  breakfast  with  me 
on  Saturday  ?  "  said  he. 

"  I  shall  be  too  happy,"  I  replied. 

There  was  now  a  short  pause.  I  took  advantage  of  it.  "  I 
think,"  said  I,  "  I  have  seen  you  once  or  twice  with  a  tall, 
handsome  man,  in  a  loose  great-coat  of  very  singular  color. 
Pray,  if  not  impertinent,  who  is  he  ?  I  am  sure  I  have  seen 
him  before  in  England." 

I  looked  full  upon  Thornton  as  I  said  this ;  he  changed 
color,  and  answered  my  gaze  with  a  quick  glance  from  his 
small,  glittering  eye,  before  he  replied,  "  I  scarcely  know  who 
you  mean,  my  acquaintance  is  so  large  and  miscellaneous  at 
Paris.  It  might  have  been  Johnson,  or  Smith,  or  Howrad,  or 
anybody,  in  short." 

"  It  is  a  man  nearly  six  feet  high,"  said  I,  "  thin,  and  re- 
markably well  made,  of  a  pale  complexion,  light  eyes,  and  very 
black  hair,  mustachios,  and  whiskers.  I  saw  him  with  you 
once  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  and  once  in  a  hell  in  the  Palais 
Royal.  Surely,  now  you  will  recollect  who  he  is  ?  " 

Thornton,  was   evidently  disconcerted.      "  Oh  !  "  said  he 


90  PELHAM  J 

after  a  short  pause,  and  another  of  his  peculiarly  quick,  sly 
glances.  "Oh,  that  man;  I  have  known  him  a  very  short 
time.  What  is  his  name?  let  me  see  I  "  and  Mr.  Thornton  af- 
fected to  look  down  in  a  complete  reverie  of  dim  remem- 
brances. 

I  saw,  however,  that  from  time  to  time  his  eye  glanced  up  to 
me,  with  a  restless,  inquisitive  expression,  and  as  instantly  re- 
tired. 

"Ah,"  said  I  carelessly,  "  I  think  I  know  who  he  is!  " 

"Who  ?"  cried  Thornton  eagerly,  and  utterly  off  his  guard. 

"And  yet,"  I  pursued,  without  noticing  the  interruption,  "it 
scarcely  can  be — the  color  of  the  hair  is  so  very  different." 

Thornton  again  appeared  to  relapse  into  his  recollections. 

"War — Warbur — ah,  I  have  it  now  !"  cried  he,  "Warbur- 
ton — that's  it — that's  the  name.  Is  it  the  one  you  supposed, 
Mr.  Pelham?" 

"  No,"  said  I,  apparently  perfectly  satisfied.  "  I  was  quite 
mistaken.  Good-morning,  I  did  not  think  it  was  so  late.  On 
Saturday,  then,  Mr.  Thornton — auflaisir!" 

"  A  cunning  dog  !  "  said  I  to  myself,  as  I  left  the  apartments. 
"  However,  on  pent  fare  trop  fin.  I  shall  have  him  yet." 

The  surest  way  to  make  a  dupe  is  to  let  your  victim  suppose 
you  are  his. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 
"  Voili  de  1'erudition."* — Les  Femmes  Savantes. 

I  FOUND,  on  my  return,  covered  with  blood,  and  foaming 
with  passion,  my  inestimable  valet — Bedos  ! 

"What's  the  matter?"  said  I. 

"  Matter  !  "  repeated  Bedos,  in  a  tone  almost  inarticulate 
with  rage  ;  and  then,  rejoicing  at  the  opportunity  of  unbosom- 
ing his  wrath,  he  poured  out  a  vast  volley  of  ivrognes  and  ca- 
rogncs,  against  our  dame  du  chateau,  of  monkey  reminiscence. 
With  great  difficulty,  I  gathered  at  last,  from  his  vituperations, 
that  the  enraged  landlady,  determined  to  wreak  her  venge- 
ance on  some  one,  had  sent  for  him  into  her  appai'tement, 
accosted  him  with  a  smile,  bade  him  sit  down,  regaled  him  with 
cold  vol-au-vent  and  a  glass  of  Cura9oa,  and,  while  he  was 
felicitating  himself  on  his  good  fortune,  slipped  out  or  the 
room:  presently,  three  tall  fellows  entered  with  sticks. 

*  There's  erudition  for  you. 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          9! 

"  We'll  teach  you,"  said  the  biggest  of  them — "  we'll  teach 
you  to  lock  up  ladies,  for  the  indulgence  of  your  vulgar  amuse- 
ment"; and,  without  one  other  word,  they  fell  upon  Bedos 
with  incredible  zeal  and  vigor.  The  valiant  valet  defended 
himself,  tooth  and  nail,  for  some  time,  for  which  he  only  got 
the  more  soundly  belabored.  In  the  mean  while  the  landlady 
entered,  and,  with  the  same  gentle  smile  as  before,  begged  him 
to  make  no  ceremony,  to  proceed  with  his  present  amusement, 
and  when  he  was  tired  with  the  exercise,  hoped  he  would 
refresh  himself  with  another  glass  of  Curafoa. 

"It  was  this,"  said  Bedos,  with  a  whimper,  "which  hurt  me 
the  most,  to  think  she  should  serve  me  so  cruelly,  after  I  had 
eaten  so  plentifully  of  the  vol-au-vent ;  envy  and  injustice  I 
can  bear,  but  treachery  stabs  me  to  the  heart." 

When  these  threshers  of  men  were  tired,  the  lady  satisfied, 
and  Bedos  half  dead,  they  suffered  the  unhappy  valet  to  with- 
draw;  the  mistress  of  the  hotel  giving  him  a  note,  which  she 
desired,  with  great  civility,  that  he  would  transmit  to  me  on 
my  return.  This,  I  found,  inclosed  my  bill,  and  informed  me 
that,  my  month  being  out  on  the  morrow,  she  had  promised 
my  rooms  to  a  particular  friend,  and  begged  I  would,  therefore, 
have  the  bontd  to  choose  another  apartment. 

"Carry  my  luggage  forthwith,"  said  I,  "to  the  Hotel  de 
Mirabeau"  :  and  that  very  evening  I  changed  my  abode. 

I  was  engaged  that  day  to  a  literary  dinner  at  the  Marquis 

d'Al ;  and  as  I  knew  I  should  meet  Vincent,  I  felt  some 

pleasure  in  repairing  to  my  entertainer's  hotel.  They  were 
just  going  to  dinner  as  I  entered.  A  good  many  English  were 
of  the  party.  The  good-natured,  in  all  senses  of  the  word, 

Lady ,  who  always  affected  to  pet  me,  cried  aloud,  "  Pel- 

ham,  mon  joli petit  migjion^  I  have  not  seen  you  for  an  age — do 
give  me  your  arm." 

Madame  d'Anville  was  just  before  me,  and,  as  I  looked  at 
her,  I  saw  that  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears  ;  my  heart  smote  me 
for  my  late  inattention,  and  going  up  to  her,  I  only  nodded  to 

Lady ,  and  said,  in  reply  to  her  invitation,  "  Non,perfide, 

it  is  my  turn  to  be  cruel  now.  Remember  your  flirtation  with 
Mr.  Howard  de  Howard." 

"  Pooh  !  "  said  Lady ,  taking  Lord  Vincent's  arm, 

your  jealousy  does  indeed  rest  upon  '  a  trifle  light  as  air.'  " 

"  Do  you  forgive  me  ?  "  whispered  I  to  Madame  d'Anville, 
as  I  handed  her  to  the  salle  a  manger. 

"  Does  not  love  forgive  everything  ? "  was  her  answer. 

"At  least,"  thought  I,  "it  never  talks  in  those  pretty  phrases  !" 


92  PELHAM  J 

The  conversation  soon  turned  upon  books.  As  for  me,  I 
rarely  at  that  time  took  a  share  in  those  discussions  ;  indeed, 
I  have  long  laid  it  down  as  a  rule,  that  when  your  fame,  or 
your  notoriety,  is  once  established,  you  never  gain  by  talking 
to  more  than  one  person  at  a  time.  If  you  don't  shine,  you 
are  a  fool ;  if  you  do,  you  are  a  bore.  You  must  become 
either  ridiculous  or  unpopular — either  hurt  your  own  self-love 
by  stupidity,  or  that  of  others  by  wit.  I  therefore  sat  in  silence, 
looking  exceedingly  edified,  and  now  and  then  muttering 
"  Good  !  "  "True  !  "  Thank  Heaven,  however,  the  suspension 
of  one  faculty  only  increases  the  vivacity  of  the  others  ;  my 
eyes  and  ears  always  watch  like  sentinels  over  the  repose  of  my 
lips.  Careless  and  indifferent  as  I  seem  to  all  things,  nothing 
ever  escapes  me  :  I  have  two  peculiarities  which  serve  me,  it 
may  be,  instead  of  talent ;  /  observe,  and  I  remember. 

"You  have  seen  Jouy's  '  Hermitedela  Chaussee  d  Antin  ?  " 
said  our  host  to  Lord  Vincent. 

"  I  have,  and  think  meanly  of  it.  There  is  a  perpetual  aim 
at  something  pointed,  which  as  perpetually  merges  into  some- 
thing dull.  He  is  like  a  bad  swimmer,  strikes  out  with  great 
force,  makes  a  confounded  splash,  and  never  gets  a  yard  the  fur- 
ther for  it.  It  is  a  great  effort  not  to  sink.  Indeed,  Monsieur 
d'A ,  your  literature  is  at  a  very  reduced  ebb :  bombas- 
tic in  the  drama,  shallow  in  philosophy,  mawkish  in  poetry,  your 
writers  in  the  present  day  seem  to  think,  with  Boileau — 

'  Souvent  de  tous  nos  manx  la  raison  est  le  pire.'  "  * 

"  Surely,"  cried  Madame  d'Anville,  "  you  will  allow  De  la 
Marline's  poetry  to  be  beautiful  ?  " 

"I  allow  it,"  said  he,  "to  be  among  the  best  you  have  ;  and 
I  know  a  very  few  lines  in  your  language  equal  to  the  two  first 
stanzas  in  his  '  Meditation  on  Napoleon,'  or  to  those  exquisite 
verses  called '-£<?  Lac'j  but  you  will  allow,  also,  that  he  wants 
originality  and  nerve.  His  thoughts  are  pathetic,  but  not 
deep  ;  he  whines,  but  sheds  no  tears.  He  has  in  his  imitation 
of  Lord  Byron  reversed  the  great  miracle  ;  instead  of  turning 
water  into  wine,  he  has  turned  wine  into  water.  Besides,  he  is 
so  unpardonably  obscure.  He  thinks  with  Baccnus  (you  re- 
member, D'A ,  the  line  in  Euripides,  which  I  will  not 

quote),  that '  there  is  something  august  in  the  shades  ';  but  he 
has  applied  this  thought  wrongly — in  his  obscurity  there  is 
nothing  sublime — it  is  the  background  of  a  Dutch  picture.  It 

*  Often  of  all  our  ills  the  worst  is  reason. 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          93 

is  only  a  red  herring,  or  an  old  hat,  which  he  has  invested  with 
such  pomposity  of  shadow  and  darkness." 

"But  his  verses  are  so  smooth,"  said  Lady . 

"Ah  !  "  answered  Vincent — 

"  '  Quand  la  rime  enfin  se  trouve  au  bout  des  vers, 
Qu'  importe  que  le  reste  y  soil  mis  de  travers  ? '  "  * 

"Helas!"  said  the  Viscount  d'A ,  an  author  of  no  small 

celebrity  himself ;  "  I  agree  with  you — we  shall  never  again  see 
a  Voltaire  or  a  Rousseau." 

"There  is  but  little  justice  in  those  complaints,  often  as  they 
are  made,"  replied  Vincent.  "  You  may  not,  it  is  true,  see  a 
Voltaire  or  a  Rousseau,  but  you  will  see  their  equals.  Genius 
can  never  be  exhausted  by  one  individual.  In  our  country,  the 
poets. after  Chaucer  in  the  fifteenth  century  complained  of  the 
decay  of  their  art — they  did  not  anticipate  Shakspeare.  In 
Hayley's  time,  who  ever  dreamt  of  the  ascension  of  Byron  ? 
Yet  Shakspeare  and  Byron  came  like  the  bridegroom  '  in  the 
dead  of  night';  and  you  have  the  same  probability  of  produc- 
ing— not,  indeed,  another  Rousseau,  but  a  writer  to  do  equal 
honor  to  your  literature." 

"  I  think," said  Lady ,  "that  Rousseau's  'Julie'  is  over- 
rated. I  had  heard  so  much  of  '  La  Nouvelle  Heloise '  when 
I  was  a  girl,  and  been  so  often  told  that  it  was  destruction  to 
read  it,  that  I  bought  the  book  the  very  day  after  I  was  mar- 
ried. I  own  to  you  that  I  could  not  get  through  it." 

"I  am  not  surprised  at  it,"  answered  Vincent  ;  "but  Rous- 
seau is  not  the  less  a  genius  for  all  that.  There  is  no  plot  in 
his  novel  to  bear  out  the  style,  and  he  himself  is  right  when  he 
says,  '  this  book  will  suit  few  readers.'  One  letter  would  de- 
light every  one — four  volumes  of  them  are  a  surfeit — it  is  the 
tonjours  perdrix.  But  the  chief  beauty  of  that  wonderful  con- 
ception of  an  impassioned  and  meditative  mind  is  to  be  found 
in  the  inimitable  manner  in  which  the  thoughts  are  embodied, 
and  in  the  tenderness,  the  truth,  the  profundity  of  the  thoughts 
themselves.  When  Lord  Edouard  says,  '  f'est  lechemin  dcs  pas- 
sions qiri  m'a  conduit  a  la  philosophic  J  \  he  inculcates,  in  one 
simple  phrase,  a  profound  and  unanswerable  truth.  It  is  in 
these  remarks  that  nature  is  chiefly  found  in  the  writings  of 
Rousseau.  Too  much  engrossed  in  himself  to  be  deeply 
skilled  in  the  characters  of  others,  that  very  self -study  had  yet 

*  No  matter  what  the  stuff,  if  good  the   rhyme — 
The  rubble  stands  cemented  with  the  lime. 

— PAKAPIIIJASK. 
t  It  is  the  path  of  the  passions  which  has  conducted  me  to  philosophy. 


94  PELHAM  ; 

given  him  a  knowledge  of  the  more  hidden  recesses  of  the 
heart.  He  could  perceive  at  once  the  motive  and  the  cause  of 
actions,  but  he  wanted  the  patience  to  trace  the  elaborate  and 
winding  progress  of  their  effects.  He  saw  the  passions  in  their 
home,  but  he  could  not  follow  them  abroad.  He  knew  man- 
kind in  the  general,  but  not  men  in  the  detail.  Thus,  when  he 
makes  an  aphorism,  or  reflection,  it  comes  home  at  once  to  you 
as  true,  but  when  he  would  analyze  that  reflection — when  he 
argues,  reasons,  and  attempts  to  prove,  you  reject  him  as  unnat- 
ural, or  you  refute  him  as  false.  It  is  then  that  he  partakes  of 
that  manic  commune  which  he  imputes  to  other  philosophers, 
'  denier  ce  qui  est,  et  d'expliquer  ce  qtii  n' est  pas.'  "  * 

There  was  a  short  pause.  "  I  think,"  said  Madame  d'An- 
ville,  "  that  it  is  in  those  reflections  which  you  admire  so  much 
in  Rousseau,  that  our  authors  in  general  excel." 

"You  are  right,"  said  Vincent,  "and  for  this  reason— with 
you  men  of  letters  are  nearly  always  men  of  the  world.  Hence 
their  quick  perceptions  are  devoted  to  human  beings  as  well  as 
to  books.  They  make  observations  acutely,  and  embody  them 
with  grace  ;  but  it  is  worth  remarking,  that  the  same  cause  which 
produced  the  aphorism  frequently  prevents  its  being  profound. 
These  literary  gtns  du  monde  have  the  tact  to  observe,  but  not 
the  patience,  perhaps  not  the  time,  to  investigate.  They 
make  the  maxim,  but  they  never  explain  to  you  the  train  of 
reasoning  which  led  to  it.  Hence  they  are  more  brilliant  than 
true.  An  English  writer  will  seldom  dare  to  make  a  maxim, 
involving,  perhaps,  in  two  lines,  one  of  the  most  important 
of  moral  problems,  without  bringing  pages  to  support  his  dic- 
tum. A  French  essayist  leaves  it  wholly  to  itself.  He  tells 
you  neither  how  he  came  by  his  reasons,  nor  their  conclusion  : 
'  le  plus  fou  souvent  est  le  plus  satisfait. '  f  Consequently,  if 
less  tedious  than  the  English,  your  reasoners  are  more  dangerous, 
and  ought  rather  to  be  considered  as  models  of  terseness  than 
of  reflection.  A  man  might  learn  to  think  sooner  from  your 
writers,  but  he  will  learn  to  think  justly  sooner  from  ours. 
Many  observations  of  La  Bruyere  and  Rochefoucault — the  latter 
especially — have  obtained  credit  for  truth  solely  from  their 
point.  They  possess  exactly  the  same  merit  as  the  very  sen- 
sible— permit  me  to  add,  very  French  line  in  Corneille  : 

'  Ma  plus  douce  esperance  est  de  perdre  1'espoir.' "  \ 
The  Marquis  took  advantage  of  the  silence  which  followed 

*  To  deny  that  which  is,  and  explain  that  which  is  not. 
t  He  who  has  the  least  sense  is  the  most  satisfied, 
%  My  sweetest  hoping  is  to  forfeit  hope, 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.  95 

Vincent's  criticism  to  rise  from  table.  We  all  (except  Vincent, 
who  took  leave)  adjourned  to  the  salon.  "  Qui  est  cet  homme 
la  ?  "  said  one,  "  comme  il  est  fyris  de  lui-meme  !  "  "  How  silly 
he  is,"  cried  another.  "  How  ugly"  said  a  third.  "  What  a 
taste  in  literature — such  a  talker — such  shallowness,  and  such 
assurance — not  worth  the  answering — could  not  slip  in  a  word — 
disagreeable,  revolting,  awkward,  slovenly,"  were  the  most 
complimentary  opinions  bestowed  upon  the  unfortunate  Vin- 
cent. The  old  railed  at  his  mauvais  godt,  and  the  young  at  his 
mauvais  cceur,  for  the  former  always  attribute  whatever  does 
net  correspond  to  their  sentiments  to  a  perversion  of  taste  ;  and 
the  latter,  whatever  does  not  come  up  to  their  enthusiasm  to  a 
depravity  of  heart. 

As  for  me,  I  went  home,  enriched  with  two  new  observa- 
tions :  first,  that  one  may  not  speak  of  anything  relative  to  a 
foreign  country,  as  one  would  if  one  were  a  native.  National 
censures  become  particular  affronts.  Secondly,  that  those  who 
know  mankind  in  theory,  seldom  know  it  in  practice  ;  the  very 
wisdom  that  conceives  a  rule  is  accompanied  with  the  abstrac- 
tion, or  the  vanity,  which  destroys  it.  I  mean,  that  the  philos- 
opher of  the  cabinet  is  often  too  diffident  to  put  into  action  his 
observations,  or  too  eager  for  display  to  conceal  their  design. 
Lord  Vincent  values  himself  upon  his  science  du  monde.  He 
has  read  much  upon  men,  he  has  reflected  more  ;  he  lays  down 
aphorisms  to  govern  or  to  please  them.  He  goes  into  society ; 
he  is  cheated  by  the  one  half,  and  the  other  half  he  offends. 
The  sage  in  the  cabinet  is  but  a  fool  in  the  salon ;  and  the 
most  consummate  men  of  the  world  are  those  who  have  con- 
sidered the  least  on  it. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

"  Falstaff. — What  money  is  in  my  purse  ? 
Page. — Seven  groats  and  two-pence." — Second  Part  of  Hemy  IV. 

'  En  iterum  Crispinus  ! " 

THE  next  day  a  note  was  brought  me,  which  had  been  sent 
to  my  former  lodgings  in  the  Hotel  de  Paris ;  it  was  from 
Thornton. 

"My  DEAR  SIR  :"  (it  began) 

"  I  am  very  sorry  that  particular  business  will  prevent  me 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  at  my  rooms  on  Saturday,  J  hope 


96  PELHAM  J 

to  be  more  fortunate  some  other  day.  I  should  be  glad  to 
introduce  you,  the  first  opportunity,  to  my  friends  in  the  Rue 
Gretry,  for  I  like  obliging  my  countrymen.  I  am  sure,  if  you 
were  to  go  there,  you  would  cut  and  come  again — one  shoulder 
of  mutton  drives  down  another. 

"  I  beg  you  to  accept  my  repeated  excuses,  and  remain,  dear 
sir,  Your  very  obedient  servant, 

"  THOMAS  THORNTON. 

"  Rue  St.  Dominique,  Friday  Morning." 

This  letter  produced  in  me  many  and  manifold  cogitations. 
What  could  possibly  have  induced  Mr.  Tom  Thornton,  rogue 
as  he  was,  to  postpone  thus,  of  his  own  accord,  the  plucking  of 
a  pigeon,  which  he  had  such  good  reason  to  believe  he  had 
entrapped  ?  There  was  evidently  no  longer  the  same  avidr;y 
to  cultivate  my  acquaintance  as  before  ;  in  putting  off  our 
appointment  with  so  little  ceremony  he  did  not  even  fix  a  day 
for  another  meeting.  What  had  altered  his  original  designs 
towards  me  ?  For,  if  Vincent's  account  were  true,  it  was 
natural  to  suppose  that  he  wished  to  profit  by  any  acquaintance 
he  might  form  with  me,  and  therefore  such  an  acquaintance 
his  own  interests  would  induce  him  to  continue  and  confirm. 

Either,  then,  he  no  longer  had  the  same  necessity  for  a  dupe, 
or  he  no  longer  imagined  I  should  become  one.  Yet  neither 
of  these  suppositions  was  probable.  It  was  not  likely  that  he 
should  grow  suddenly  honest,  or  suddenly  rich  :  nor  had  I,  on 
the  other  hand,  given  him  any  reason  to  suppose  I  was  a  jot 
more  wary  than  any  other  individual  he  might  have  imposed 
upon.  On  the  contrary,  I  had  appeared  to  seek  his  acquaint- 
ance with  an  eagerness  which  said  but  little  for  my  knowledge 
of  the  world.  The  more  I  reflected,  the  more  I  should  have 
been  puzzled,  had  I  not  connected  his  present  backwardness 
with  his  acquaintance  with  the  stranger,  whom  he  termed 
Warburton.  It  is  true  that  I  had  no  reason  to  suppose  so  :  it 
was  a  conjecture  wholly  unsupported,  and,  indeed,  against  my 
better  sense  ;  yet,  from  some  unanalyzed  associations,  I  could 
not  divest  myself  of  the  supposition. 

"  I  will  soon  see,"  tho-ught  I ;  and,  wrapping  myself  in  my 
cloak,  for  the  day  was  bitterly  cold,  I  bent  my  way  to  Thorn- 
ton's lodgings.  I  could  not  explain  to  myself  the  deep  interest 
I  took  in  whatever  was  connected  with  (the  so-called)  Warbur- 
ton, or  whatever  promised  to  discover  more  clearly  any 
particulars  respecting  him.  His  behavior  in  the  gambling- 
house  ;  his  conversation  with  the  woman  in  the  Jardin  des 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          97 

Planter  ;  and  the  singular  circumstance  that  a  man  of  so  very 
aristocratic  an  appearance  should  be  connected  with  Thornton, 
and  only  seen  in  such  low  scenes,  and  with  such  low  society, 
would  not  have  been  sufficient  so  strongly  to  occupy  my  mind, 
had  it  not  been  for  certain  dim  recollections,  and  undefinable 
associations,  that  his  appearance  when  present,  and  my  thoughts 
of  him  when  absent,  perpetually  recalled. 

As,  engrossed  with  meditations  of  this  nature,  I  was  pass- 
ing over  the  Pont  Neuf,  I  perceived  the  man  whom  Warbur- 
ton  had  so  earnestly  watched  in  the  gambling-house,  and  whom 
my  conjectures  identified  with  the  "  Tyrrell  "  who  had  formed 
the  subject  of  conversation  in  the  Jar  din  des  Plantes,  pass 
slowly  before  me.  There  was  an  appearance  of  great  exhaust- 
ion in  his  swarthy  and  strongly  marked  countenance.  He 
walked  carelessly  on,  neither  looking  to  the  right  nor  the  left,  with 
that  air  of  thought  and  abstraction  common  to  all  men  in  the  habit 
of  indulging  any  engrossing  and  exciting  passion. 

We  were  just  on  the  other  side  of  the  Seine  when  I  perceived 
the  woman  of  the  Jardin  des  Plantes  approach.  Tyrrell  (for 
that,  I  afterwards  discovered,  was  really  his  name)  started  as 
she  came  near,  and  asked  her  in  a  tone  of  some  asperity  where 
she  had  been  ?  As  I  was  but  a  few  paces  behind,  I  had  a  clear, 
full  view  of  the  woman's  countenance.  She  was  about  twenty- 
eight  or  thirty  years  of  age.  Her  features  were  decidedly 
handsome,  though  somewhat  too  sharp  and  aquiline.  Her 
eyes  were  light  and  rather  sunken  ;  and  her  complexion  be- 
spoke somewhat  of  the  paleness  and  languor  of  ill-health.  On 
the  whole,  the  expression  of  her  face,  though  decided,  was  not 
unpleasing,  and  when  she  returned  Tyrrell's  rather  rude  salu- 
tation, it  was  with  a  smile,  which  made  her,  for  the  moment, 
absolutely  beautiful. 

"  Where  have  I  been  to  ?"  she  said,  in  answer  to  his  inter- 
rogatory ;  "why,  I  went  to  look  at  the  New  Church,  which 
they  told  me  was  so  superbe." 

"Methinks,"  replied  the  man,  "that  ours  are  not  precisely 
the  circumstances  in  which  such  spectacles  are  amusing." 

"  Nay,  Tyrrell,"  said  the  woman,  as,  taking  his  arm,  they 
walked  on  together  a  few  paces  before  me,  "  nay,  we  are  quite 
rich  now  to  what  we  have  been  ;  and,  if  you  do  play  again,  our 
two  hundred  pounds  may  swell  into  a  fortune.  Your  losses 
have  brought  you  skill,  and  you  may  now  turn  them  into  actual 
advantages." 

Tyrrell  did  not  reply  exactly  to  these  remarks,  but  appeared 
as  if  debating  with  himself.  "Two  hundred  pounds — twenty 


98  PELHAM  J 

already  gone !  In  a  few  months  all  will  have  melted  away. 
What  is  it  then  now  but  a  respite  from  starvation  ? — but  with 
luck  it  may  become  a  competence." 

"  And  why  not  have  luck  ?  Many  a  fortune  has  been  made 
with  a  worse  beginning,"  said  the  woman. 

"True,  Margaret,"  pursued  the  gambler,  "and  even  without 
luck,  our  fate  can  only  commence  a  month  or  two  sooner — 
better  a  short  doom  than  a  lingering  torture." 

"  What  think  you  of  trying  some  new  game  where  you  have 
more  experience,  or  where  the  chances  are  greater  than  in  that 
of  rouge  et  noir  ?"  asked  the  woman.  "Could  you  not  make 
something  out  of  that  tall,  handsome  man,  who,  Thornton  says 
is  so  rich  ?  " 

"  Ah,  if  one  could  !  "  sighed  Tyrrell  wistfully.  "  Thornton 
tells  me  that  he  has  won  thousands  from  him,  and  that  they 
are  mere  drops  in  his  income.  Thornton  is  a  good,  easy,  care- 
less fellow,  and  might  let  me  into  a  share  of  the  booty  ;  but 
then,  in  what  games  can  I  engage  him  ?" 

Here  I  passed  this  well-suited  pair,  and  lost  the  remainder 
of  their  conversation.  "  Well,"  thought  I,  "  if  this  precious 
personage  does  starve  at  last,  he  will  most  richly  deserve  it, 
partly  for  his  designs  on  the  stranger,  principally  for  his 
opinion  of  Thornton.  If  he  were  a  knave  only,  one  might 
pity  him  ;  but  a  knave  and  fool  both  are  a  combination  of 
evil  for  which  there  is  no  intermediate  purgatory  of  opinion — 
nothing  short  of  utter  damnation." 

I  soon  arrived  at  Mr.  Thornton's  abode.  The  same  old 
woman,  poring  over  the  same  novel  of  Crebillon,  made  me 
the  same  reply  as  before  ;  and  accordingly  again  I  ascended 
the  obscure  and  rugged  stairs,  which  seemed  to  indicate  that 
the  road  to  vice  is  not  so  easy  as  one  generally  supposes.  I 
knocked  at  the  door,  and,  receiving  no  answering  acknowledg- 
ment, opened  it  at  once.  The  first  thing  I  saw  was  the  dark, 
rough  coat  of  Warburton  :  that  person's  back  was  turned  to 
me,  and  he  was  talking  with  some  energy  to  Thornton  (who 
lounged  idly  in  a  chair,  with  one  ungartered  leg  thrown  over 
the  elbow). 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Pelham,"  exclaimed  the  latter,  starting  from  his 
not  very  graceful  position,  "  it  gives  me  great  pleasure  to  see 
you — Mr.  Warburton,  Mr.  Pelham — Mr.  Pelham,  Mr.  War- 
burton." 

My  new-made  and  mysterious  acquaintance  drew  himself 
up  to  his  full  height,  and  bowed  very  slightly  to  my  own 
acknowledgment  of  the  introduction.  A  low  person  would 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          99 

have  thought  him  rude.  I  only  supposed  him  ignorant  of  the 
world.  No  man  of  the  world  is  uncivil.  He  turned  round, 
after  this  stiff  condescension,  and  sank  down  on  the  sofa,  with 
his  back  towards  me. 

"  I  was  mistaken,"  thought  I,  "  when  I  believed  him  to  b< 
above  such  associates  as  Thornton — they  are  well  matched." 

"My  dear  sir,"  said  Thornton,  "I  am  very  sorry  I  could 
not  see  you  to  breakfast — a  particular  engagement  prevented 
me — verbum  sap.  Mr.  Pelham,  you  take  me,  I  suppose — black 
eyes,  white  skin,  and  such  an  ankle  !"  and  the  fellow  rubbed 
his  great  hands  and  chuckled. 

"  Well,"  said  I,  "  I  cannot  blame  you,  whatever  may  be  my 
loss — a  dark  eye  and  a  straight  ankle  are  powerful  excuses. 
What  says  Mr.  Warburton  to  them?"  and  I  turned  to  the  ob- 
ject of  my  interrogatory. 

"  Really,"  he  answered  drily  (but  in  a  voice  that  struck  me 
as  feigned  and  artificial),  and  without  moving  from  his  un- 
courteous  position,  "  Mr.  Thornton  only  can  judge  of  the  nice- 
ties of  his  peculiar  tastes,  or  the  justice  of  his  general  excuses." 

Mr.  Warburton  said  this  in  a  sarcastic,  bitter  tone.  Thorn- 
ton bit  his  lips,  more,  I  should  think,  at  the  manner  than  the 
words,  and  his  small  gray  eyes  sparkled  with  a  malignant  and 
stern  expression,  which  suited  the  character  of  his  face  far 
better  than  the  careless  levity  which  his  glances  usually  denoted. 

"  They  are  no  such  great  friends,  after  all,"  thought  I  ; 
"  and  now  let  me  change  my  attack.  Pray,"  I  asked,  "among 
all  your  numerous  acquaintances  at  Paris,  did  you  ever  meet 
with  a  Mr.  Tyrrell?" 

Warburton  started  from  his  chair,  and  as  instantly  re-seated 
himself.  Thornton  eyed  me  with  one  of  those  peculiar  looks 
which  so  strongly  reminded  me  of  a  dog,  in  deliberation 
whether  to  bite  or  run  away. 

"  I  do  know  a  Mr.  Tyrrell !  "  he  said,  after  a  short  pause. 

"  What  sort  of  a  person  is  he?"  I  asked  with  an  indifferent 
air — "  great  gamester,  is  he  not  ?  " 

"  He  does  slap  it  down  on  the  colors  now  and  then,"  replied 
Thornton.  "  I  hope  you  don't  know  him,  Mr.  Pelham  ! " 

"Why?  "said  I,  evading  the  question.  "His  character  is 
not  affected  by  a  propensity  so  common,  unless,  indeed,  you 
suppose  him  to  be  more  a  gambler  than  a  gamester,  viz.,  more 
acute  than  unlucky." 

"  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  say  any  such  thing,"  replied 
Thornton ;  "  you  wont  catch  an  old  lawyer  in  any  such  im- 
prudence." 


106  PfcLHAM  { 

"  The  greater  the  truth,  the  greater  the  libel,"  said  Warbur- 
ton,  with  a  sneer. 

"No,"  resumed  Thornton,  "I  know  nothing  against  Mr. 
Tyrrell — nothing!  He  may  be  a  very  good  man,  and  I  believe 
he  is ;  but  as  a  friend,  Mr.  Pelham  (and  Mr.  Thornton  grew 
quite  affectionate),  I  advise  you  to  have  as  little  as  possible  to 
do  with  that  sort  of  people" 

"  Truly,"  said  I,  "  you  have  now  excited  my  curiosity. 
Nothing,  you  know,  is  half  so  inviting  as  mystery." 

Thornton  looked  as  if  he  had  expected  a  very  different 
reply ;  and  Warburton  said,  in  an  abrupt  tone  : 

"  Whoever  enters  an  unknown  road  in  a  fog  may  easily  lose 
himself." 

"  True,"  said  I;  "but  that  very  chance  is  more  agreeable 
than  a  road  where  one  knows  every  tree  !  Danger  and  novelty 
are  more  to  my  taste  than  safety  and  sameness.  Besides,  as  I 
rarely  gamble  myself,  I  can  lose  little  by  an  acquaintance  with 
those  who  do." 

Another  pause  ensued  ;  and,  finding  I  had  got  all  from  Mr. 
Thornton  and  his  uncourteous  guest  that  I  was  likely  to  do,  I 
took  my  hat  and  my  departure. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  thought  I,  "  whether  I  have  profited  much 
by  this  visit.  Let  me  consider.  In  the  first  place,  I  have  not 
ascertained  why  I  was  put  off  by  Mr.  Thornton — for  as  to  his 
excuse,  it  could  only  have  availed  one  day,  and  had  he  been 
anxious  for  my  acquaintance  he  would  have  named  another. 
I  have,  however,  discovered,  first,  that  he  does  not  wish  me  to 
form  any  connection  with  Tyrrell ;  secondly,  from  Warbur- 
ton's  sarcasm,  and  his  glance  of  reply,  that  there  is  but  little 
friendship  between  these  two,  whatever  be  the  intimacy ;  and, 
thirdly,  that  Warburton,  from  his  dorsal  positions,  so  studiously 
preserved,  either  wished  to  be  uncivil  or  unnoticed."  .  The 
latter,  after  all,  was  the  most  probable  supposition  ;  and,  upon 
the  whole,  I  felt  more  than  ever  convinced  that  he  was  th& 
person  I  suspected  him  to  be. 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          IOI 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

"  TeR  how  the  fates  my  giddy  course  did  guide, 
The  inconstant  turns  of  every  changing  hour." 

— Piers  Gaveston,  by  M.  DRAYTON. 

"Je  me  retire  done. — Adieu,  Paris,  adieu  !" — BOILEAU. 

WHEN  I  returned  home,  I  found  on  my  table  the  following 
letter  from  my  mother  : 

"  MY  DEAR  HENRY  : 

"I  am  rejoiced  to  hear  you  are  so  well  entertained  at  Paris ; 

that  you  have  been  so  often  to  the  D s  and  C s ;  that 

Coulon  says  you  are  his  best  pupil ;  that  your  favorite  horse  is 
so  much  admired  ;  and  that  you  have  only  exceeded  your  al- 
lowance by  pTiooo.  With  some  difficulty  I  have  persuaded 
your  uncle  to  transmit  you  an  order  for  ^£1500,  which  will,  I 
trust,  make  up  all  your  deficiencies. 

"  You  must  not,  my  dear  child,  be  so  extravagant  for  the  future, 
and  for  a  very  good  reason,  viz.,  I  do  not  see  how  you  can. 
Your  uncle,  I  fear,  will  not  again  be  so  generous,  and  your 
father  cannot  assist  you.  You  will  therefore  see  more  clearly 
than  ever  the  necessity  of  marrying  an  heiress  :  there  are  only  two 
in  England  (the  daughters  of  gentlemen)  worthy  of  you — the 
most  deserving  of  these  has  ^10,000  a  year,  the  other  has 
^"100,000.  The  former  is  old,  ugly,  and  very  ill-tempered  ; 
the  latter  tolerably  pretty,  and  agreeable,  and  just  of  age  :  but 
you  will  perceive  the  impropriety  of  even  thinking  of  her  till 
we  have  tried  the  other.  I  am  going  to  ask  both  to  my  Sunday 
soirees,  where  I  never  admit  any  single  men,  so  that  there,  at 
least,  you  will  have  no  rivals. 

"And  now,  my  dear  son,  before  I  enter  into  a  subject  of 
great  importance  to  you,  I  wish  to  recall  to  your  mind  that 
pleasure  is  never  an  end,  butj  a  means — viz.,  that  in  your 
horses  and  amusements  at  Paris,  your  visits  and  your  liaisons, 
you  have  always,  I  trust,  remembered  that  these  were  only  so 
far  desirable  as  the  methods  of  shining  in  society.  I  have 
now  a  new  scene  on  which  you  are  to  enter,  with  very  different 
objects  in  view,  and  where  any  pleasures  you  may  find  have 
nothing  the  least  in  common  with  those  you  at  present  enjoy. 

"I  know  that  this  preface  will  not  frighten  you,  as  it  might 
many  silly  young  men.  Your  education  has  been  too  carefully 
attended  to  for  you  to  imagine  that  any  step  can  be  rough  or 
•unpleasant  which  raises  you  in  the  world. 


102  PELHAM  ; 

"  To  come  at  once  to  the  point.  One  of  the  seats  in  your 
uncle's  borough  of  Buyemall  is  every  day  expected  to  be  va- 
cated ;  the  present  member,  Mr.  Toolington,  cannot  possibly 
live  a  week,  and  your  uncle  is  very  desirous  that  you  should 
fill  the  vacancy  which  Mr.  Toolington's  death  will  create. 
Though  I  called  it  Lord  Glenmorris's  borough,  yet  it  is  not 
entirely  at  his  disposal,  which  I  think  very  strange,  since  my 
father,  who  was  not  half  so  rich  as  your  uncle,  could  send  two 
members  to  Parliament  without  the  least  trouble  in  the  world — 
but  I  don't  understand  these  matters.  Possibly  your  uncle 
(poor  man)  does  not  manage  them  well.  However,  he  says  no 
time  is  to  be  lost.  You  are  to  return  immediately  to  England, 

and  come  down  to  his  house  in shire.  It  is  supposed  you 

will  have  some  contest,  but  be  certain*eventually  to  come  in. 

"  You  will  also,  in  this  visit  to  Lord  Glenmorris,  have  an 
excellent  opportunity  of  securing  his  affection  ;  you  know  it  is 
some  time  since  he  saw  you,  and  the  greater  part  of  his  prop- 
erty is  unentailed.  If  you  come  into  the  House,  you  must 
devote  yourself  wholly  to  it,  and  I  have  no  fear  of  your  succeed- 
ing ;  for  I  remember,  when  you  were  quite  a  child,  how  well 
yon  spoke,  '  My  name  is  Norval,'  and  '  Romans,  countrymen, 
and  lovers,'  etc.  I  heard  Mr.  Canning  speak  the  other  day, 
and  I  think  his  voice  is  quite  like  yours.  In  short,  I  make  no 
doubt  of  seeing  you  in  the  ministry  in  a  very  few  years. 

"You  see,  my  dear  son,  that  it  is  absolutely  necessary  you 

should  set  out  immediately.  You  will  call  on  Lady ,  and 

you  will  endeavor  to  make  firm  friends  of  the  most  desirable 
among  your  present  acquaintance ;  so  that  you  may  be  on  the 
same  footing  you  are  now,  should  you  return  to  Paris.  This  a 
little  civility  will  easily  do  ;  nobody  (as  I  before  observed), 
except  in  England,  ever  loses  by  politeness  ;  by  the  by,  that 
last  word  is  one  you  must  never  use,  it  is  too  Gloucester  Place 
like. 

"  You  will  also  be  careful,  in  returning  to  England,  to  make 
very  little  use  of  French  phrases  ;  no  vulgarity  is  moreunpleas- 
ing.  I  could  not  help  being  exceedingly  amused  by  a  book 
written  the  other  day,  which  professes  to  give  an  accurate 
description  of  good  society.  Not  knowing  what  to  make  us 
say  in  English,  the  author  has  made  us  talk  nothing  but  French. 
I  have  often  wondered  what  common  people  think  of  us,  since 
in  their  novels  they  always  affect  to  portray  us  so  different 
from  themselves.  I  am  very  much  afraid  we  are  in  all  things 
exactly  like  them,  except  in  being  more  simple  and  unaffected. 
The  higher  the  rank,  indeed,  the  less  pretence,  because  there 


OR,  ADVENTURES   OF    A    GENTLEMAN.  IOJ 

is  less  to  pretend  to.  This  is  the  chief  reason  why  our  man- 
ners are  better  than  low  persons'  ;  ours  are  more  natural, 
because  they  imitate  no  one  else  ;  theirs  are  affected,  because 
they  think  to  imitate  ours  ;  and  whatever  is  evidently  borrowed 
becomes  vulgar.  Original  affectation  is  sometimes  good  ton, — 
imitated  affectation,  always  bad. 

"Well,  my  dear  Henry,  I  must  now  conclude  this  letter, 
already  too  long  to  be  interesting.  I  hope  to  see  you  about 
ten  days  after  you  receive  this  ;  and  if  you  can  bring  me  a 
Cachemire  shawl,  it  would  give  me  great  pleasure  to  see  your 
taste  in  its  choice.  God  bless  you,  my  dear  son. 
"  Your  very  affectionate, 

"FRANCES  PELHAM." 

"P.S. — I  hope  you  go  to  church  sometimes  :  I  am  sorry  to 
see  the  young  men  of  the  present  day  so  irreligious  ;  it  is  very 
bad  taste  !  Perhaps  you  could  get  my  old  friend,  Madame 
de ,  to  choose  the  Cachemire.  Take  care  of  your  health." 

This  letter,  which  I  read  carefully  twice  over,  threw  me  into 
a  most  serious  meditation.  My  first  feeling  was  regret  at  leav- 
ing Paris  ;  my  second,  was  a  certain  exultation  at  the  new 
prospects  so  unexpectedly  opened  to  me.  The  great  aim  of  a 
philosopher  is  to  reconcile  every  disadvantage  by  some  counter- 
balance of  good  ;  where  he  cannot  create  this,  he  should 
imagine  it.  I  began,  therefore,  to  consider  less  what  I  should 
lose  than  what  I  should  gain,  by  quitting  Paris.  In  the  first 
place,  I  was  tolerably  tired  of  its  amusements  :  no  business  is 
half  so  fatiguing  as  pleasure.  I  longed  for  a  change  :  behold, 
a  change  was  at  hand  !  Then,  to  say  truth,  I  was  heartily  glad 
of  a  pretence  of  escaping  from  a  numerous  cohort  of  folles 
amours,  with  Madame  d'Anville  at  the  head  ;  and  the  very 
circumstance  which  men  who  play  the  German  flute  and  fall 
in  love  would  have  considered  the  most  vexatious,  I  regarded 
as  the  most  consolatory. 

My  mind  being  thus  relieved  from  its  primary  regret  at  my 
departure,  I  now  suffered  it  to  look  forward  to  the  advantages 
of  my  return  to  England.  My  love  of  excitement  and  variety 
made  an  election,  in  which  I  was  to  have  both  the  importance 
of  the  contest  and  the  certainty  of  the  success,  a  very  agree- 
able object  of  anticipation. 

I  was  also  by  this  time  wearied  with  my  attendance  upon 
women,  and  eager  to  exchange  it  for  the  ordinary  objects  of 
ambition  to  men  :  and  my  vanity  whispered  that  my  success 
in  the  one  was  no  unfavorable  omen  of  my  prosperity  in  the 


IO4  PELHAM  ; 

other.  On  my  return  to  England,  with  a  new  scene  and  a  new 
motive  for  conduct,  I  resolved  that  I  would  commence  a  dif- 
ferent character  from  that  I  had  hitherto  assumed.  How  far 
I  kept  this  resolution  the  various  events  hereafter  to  be  shown 
will  testify-  For  myself,  I  felt  that  I  was  now  about  to  enter 
a  more  crowded  scene  upon  a  more  elevated  ascent ;  and  my 
previous  experience  of  human  nature  was  sufficient  to  convince 
me  that  my  safety  required  a  more  continual  circumspection, 
and  my  success  a  more  dignified  bearing. 


CHAPTER   XXVII. 

"  Je  noterai  cela,  madame,  dans  mon  livre." — MoufeRE. 

I  AM  not  one  of  those  persons  who  are  many  days  in  decid- 
ing what  may  be  effected  in  one.  "  On  the  third  day  from 
this,"  said  I  to  Bedos,  "at  half -past  nine  in  the  morning,  I 
shall  leave  Paris  for  England." 

"Oh,  my  poor  wife  !  "  said  the  valet,  "she  will  break  her 
heart  if  I  leave  her." 

"  Then  stay,"  said  I.     Bedos  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  prefer  being  with  monsieur  to  all  things." 

"  What,  even  to  your  wife  ?  "  The  courteous  rascal  placed 
his  hand  to  his  heart  and  bowed.  "You  shall  not  suffer  by 
your  fidelity — you  shall  take  your  wife  with  you." 

The  conjugal  valet's  countenance  fell.  "  No,"  he  said,  "no  ; 
he  could  not  take  advantage  of  monsieur's  generosity." 

"  I  insist  upon  it — not  another  word." 

"  I  beg  a  thousand  pardons  of  monsieur  ;  but — but  my  wife 
js  very  ill,  and  unable  to  travel." 

"  Then,  in  that  case,  so  excellent  a  husband  cannot  think  of 
leaving  a  sick  and  destitute  wife." 

"  Poverty  has  no  law  ;  if  I  consulted  my  heart,  and  stayed, 
I  should  starve,  et  il  faut  vivre."  * 

"  Je  n'en  vois pas  la  necessite"  \  replied  I,  as  I  got  into  my 
carriage.  That  repartee,  by  the  way,  I  cannot  claim  as  my 
own  ;  it  is  the  very  unanswerable  answer  of  a  judge  to  an  ex- 
postulating thief. 

I  made  the  round  of  reciprocal  regrets,  according  to  the 
orthodox  formula.  The  Duchesse  de  Perpignan  was  the  last 

*  One  must  live. 
t  I  don't  see  the  necessity  of  that. 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         105 

(Madame  d'Anville  I  reserved  for  another  day)  ;  that  virtuous 
and  wise  personage  was  in  the  boudoir  of  reception.  I  glanced 
at  the  fatal  door  as  I  entered.  I  have  a  great  aversion,  after 
anything  has  once  happened  and  fairly  subsided,  to  make  any 
allusion  to  its  former  existence.  I  never,  therefore,  talked  to 
the  Duchesse  about  our  ancient  tgaremens.  I  spoke,  this  morn- 
ing, of  the  marriage  of  one  person,  the  death  of  another,  and 
lastly,  the  departure  of  my  individual  self. 

"  When  do  you  go? "  she  said  eagerly. 

"  In  two  days ;  my  departure  will  be  softened,  if  I  can  exe- 
cute any  commissions  in  England  for  madame." 

"  None,"  said  she,  and  then  in  a  low  tone  (that  none  of  the 
idlers,  who  were  always  found  at  her  morning  lev&es,  should 
hear),  she  added :  "  You  will  receive  a  note  from  me  this 
evening." 

I  bowed,  changed  the  conversation,  and  withdrew.  I  dined 
in  my  own  rooms,  and  spent  the  evening  in  looking  over  the 
various  billets-doux  received  during  my  sejour  at  Paris. 

"Where  shall  I  put  all  these  locks  of  hair ?"  asked  Bedos, 
opening  a  drawer-full. 

"  Into  my  scrap-book." 

"And  all  these  letters?" 

"  Into  the  fire." 

I  was  just  getting  into  bed  when  the  Duchesse  de  Perpig- 
nan's  note  arrived.  It  was  as  follows  : 

"  MY  DEAR  FRIEND  : 

"  For  that  word,  so  doubtful  in  our  language,  I  may  at  least 
call  you  in  your  own.  I  am  unwilling  that  you  should  leave 
this  country  with  those  sentiments  you  now  entertain  of  me, 
unaltered,  yet  I  cannot  imagine  any  form  of  words  of  suffi- 
cient magic  to  change  them.  Oh  !  if  you  knew  how  much  I 
am  to  be  pitied  ;  if  you  could  look  for  one  moment  into  this 
lonely  and  blighted  heart ;  if  you  could  trace,  step  by  step, 
the  progress  I  have  made  in  folly  and  sin,  you  would  see 
how  much  of  what  you  now  condemn  and  despise  I  have 
owed  to  circumstances,  rather  than  to  the  vice  of  my  disposi- 
tion. I  was  born  a  beauty,  educated  a  beauty,  owed  fame, 
rank,  power  to  beauty  ;  and  it  is  to  the  advantages  I  have 
derived  from  person  that  I  owe  the  ruin  of  my  mind.  You 
have  seen  how  much  I  now  derive  from  art  ;  I  loathe  myself 
as  I  write  that  sentence  ;  but  no  matter :  from  that  moment 
you  loathed  me  too.  You  did  not  take  into  consideration 
that  I  had  been  living  on  excitement  all  my  youth,  and  that 


106  PELHAM  J 

in  my  maturer  years  I  could  not  relinquish  it.  I  had  reigned 
by  my  attractions,  and  I  thought  every  art  preferable  to  re- 
signing my  empire  ;  but,  in  feeding  my  vanity,  I  had  not  been 
able  to  stifle  the  dictates  of  my  heart.  Love  is  so  natural  to 
a  woman  that  she  is  scarcely  a  woman  who  resists  it  ;  but  in 
me  it  has  been  a  sentiment,  not  a  passion. 

"  Sentiment,  then,  and  vanity,  have  been  my  seducers.  I 
said  that  I  owed  my  errors  to  circumstances,  not  to  nature. 
You  will  say  that  in  confessing  love  and  vanity  to  be  my 
seducers  I  contradict  this  assertion — you  are  mistaken.  I 
mean  that  though  vanity  and  sentiment  were  in  me,  yet  the 
scenes  in  which  I  have  been  placed,  and  the  events  which  1 
have  witnessed,  gave  to  those  latent  currents  of  action  a 
wrong  and  a  dangerous  direction.  I  was  formed  to  loi>e ;  for 
one  whom  I  did  love  I  could  have  made  every  sacrifice.  I 
married  a  man  I  hated,  and  I  only  learnt  the  depths  of  my 
heart  when  it  was  too  late. 

"  Enough  of  this  ;  you  will  leave  this  country  ;  we  shall 
never  meet  again — never  !  You  may  return  to  Paris,  but  I 
shall  then  be  no  more :  rfimporte — I  shall  be  unchanged  to 
the  last.  Je  mourrai  en  reine. 

"  As  a  latest  pledge  of  what  I  have  felt  for  you,  I  send  you 
the  enclosed  chain  and  ring ;  as  a  latest  favor  I  request  you  to 
wear  them  for  six  months,  and,  above  all,  for  two  hours  in  the 
Tuileries  to-morrow.  You  will  laugh  at  this  request  :  it  seems 
idle  and  romantic — perhaps  it  is  so.  Love  has  many  exagger- 
ations in  sentiment,  which  reason  would  despise.  What  won- 
der, then,  that  mine,  above  that  of  all  others,  should  conceive 
them  ?  You  will  not,  I  know,  deny  this  request.  Farewell  ! 
In  this  world  we  shall  never  meet  again.  Farewell !  E.  P." 

"  A  most  sensible  effusion,"  said  I  to  myself,  when  I  had 
read  this  billet ;  "  and  yet,  after  all,  it  shows  more  feeling  and 
more  character  than  I  could  have  supposed  she  possessed."  I 
took  up  the  chain  :  it  was  of  Maltese  workmanship  ;  not  very 
handsome,  nor,  indeed,  in  any  way  remarkable,  except  for  a 
plain  hair  ring  which  was  attached  to  it,  and  which  I  found 
myself  unable  to  take  off  without  breaking.  "It  is  a  very 
singular  request,"  thought  I,  "  but  then  it  comes  from  a  very 
singular  person  ;  and  as  it  rather  partakes  of  adventure  and 
intrigue,  I  shall  at  all  events  appear  in  the  Tuileries  to-morrow, 
chained  and  ringed" 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

"  Thy  incivility  shall  not  make  me  fail  to  do  what  becomes  me  ;  and  since 
thou  hast  more  valor  than  courtesy,  I  for  thee  will  hazard  that  life  which 
thou  wouldst  take  from  me." — Cassandra,  "elegantly  done  into  English  by 
SIR  CHARLES  COTTKRELL." 

ABOUT  the  usual  hour  for  the  promenade  in  the  Tuileries  I 
conveyed  myself  thither.  I  set  the  chain  and  ring  in  full  dis- 
play, rendered  still  more  conspicuous  by  the  dark-colored 
dress  which  I  always  wore.  I  had  not  been  in  the  gardens  ten 
minutes,  before  I  perceived  a  young  Frenchman,  scarcely 
twenty  years  of  age,  look  with  a  very  peculiar  air  at  my  new 
decorations.  He  passed  and  repassed  me  much  oftener  than 
the  alternations  of  the  walk  warranted  ;  and  at  last,  taking  off 
his  hat,  said  in  a  low  tone,  that  he  wished  much  for  the  honor  of 
exchanging  a  few  words  with  me  in  private.  I  saw,  at  the  first 
glance,  that  he  was  a  gentleman,  and  accordingly  withdrew 
with  him  among  the  trees,  in  the  more  retired  part  of  the  garden. 

"  Permit  me,"  said  he,  "  to  inquire  how  that  ring  and  chain 
came  into  your  possession?" 

"Monsieur,"!  replied,  "you  will  understand  me,  when  1 
say  that  the  honor  of  another  person  is  implicated  in  my  con- 
cealment of  that  secret." 

"  Sir,"  said  the  Frenchman,  coloring  violently,  "  I  have  seen 
them  before — in  a  word,  they  belong  to  me  !  " 

"  I  smiled — my  young  hero  fired  at  this.  "  Out,  monsieur," 
said  he,  speaking  very  loud,  and  very  quick,  "  they  belong  to 
me,  and  I  insist  upon  your  immediately  restoring  them,  or  vin- 
dicating your  claim  to  them  by  arms." 

"You  leave  me  but  one  answer,  monsieur,"  said  I  ;  "I  will 
find  a  friend  to  wait  upon  you  immediately.  Allow  me  to  in- 
quire your  address  ? "  The  Frenchman,  who  was  greatly 
Agitated,  produced  a  card.  We  bowed  and  separated. 

I  was  glancing  over  the  address  I  held  in  my  hand,  which 

was — C.   de  Vautran,  Rue  de  Bourbon,  Nume"ro ,  when  my 

ears  were  saluted  with  : 

'•  Now  do  you  know  me  ?     Thou  shouldst  be  Alonzo." 

I  did  not  require  the  faculty  of  sight  to  recognize  Lord 
Vincent.  "My  dear  fellow,"  said  I,  "I  am  rejoiced  to  see 
you  !  "  and  thereupon  I  poured  into  his  ear  the  particulars  of 
my  morning  adventure.  Lord  Vincent  listened  to  me  with 
much  apparent  interest,  and  spoke  very  unaffectedly  of  his 
readiness  to  serve  me,  and  his  regret  at  the  occasion. 


ioS  PELHAM  ; 

"  Pooh  !  "  said  I,  "a  duel  in  France  is  not  like  one  in  Eng- 
land ;  the  former  is  a  matter  of  course  ;  a  trifle  of  common 
occurrence  ;  one  makes  an  engagement  to  fight  in  the  same 
breath  as  an  engagement  to  dine  ;  but  the  latter  is  a  thing  of 
state  and  solemnity — long  faces — early  rising — and  will-making. 
But  do  get  this  business  over  as  soon  as  you  can,  that  we  may 
dine  at  the  Rocher  afterwards." 

"Well,  my  dear  Pelham,"  said  Vincent,  "  I  cannot  refuse  you 
my  services  ;  and  as  I  suppose  Monsieur  de  Vautran  will  choose 
swords,  I  venture  to  augur  everything  from  your  skill  in  that 
species  of  weapon.  It  is  the  first  time  I  have  ever  interfered 
in  affairs  of  this  nature,  but  I  hope  to  get  well  through  the 
present. 

'  Nobilis  ornatur  lauro  collega  secundo.' 

as  Juvenal  says  :  au  revoir"  and  away  went  Lord  Vincent,  half 
forgetting  all  his  late  anxiety  for  my  life  in  his  paternal  pleasure 
for  the  delivery  of  his  quotation. 

Vincent  is  the  only  punster  I  ever  knew  with  a  good  heart. 
No  action,  to  that  race  in  general,  is  so  serious  an  occupation 
as  the  play  upon  words  ;  and  the  remorseless  habit  of  murder- 
ing a  phrase  renders  them  perfectly  obdurate  to  the  simple 
death  of  a  friend.  I  walked  through  every  variety  the  straight 
paths  of  the  Tuileries  could  afford,  and  was  beginning  to  get 
exceedingly  tired,  when  Lord  Vincent  returned.  He  looked 
very  grave,  and  I  saw  at  once  that  he  was  come  to  particular- 
ize the  circumstances  of  the  last  extreme.  "  The  Bois  de 
Boulogne— pistols — in  one  hour"  were  the  three  leading  features 
of  his  detail. 

"Pistols  !  "  said  I  ;  "well,  be  it  so.  I  would  rather  have  had 
swords,  for  the  young  man's  sake  as  much  as  my  own  :  but 
thirteen  paces  and  a  steady  aim  will  settle  the  business  as  soon. 
We  will  try  a  bottle  of  the  Chambertin  to-day,  Vincent."  The 
punster  smiled  faintly,  and  for  once  in  his  life  made  no  reply. 
We  walked  gravely  and  soberly  to  my  lodgings  for  the  pistols, 
and  then  proceeded  to  the  engagement  as  silently  as  philoso- 
phers should  do. 

The  Frenchman  and  his  second  were  on  the  ground  first.  I 
saw  that  the  former  was  pale  and  agitated,  not,  I  think,  from 
fear,  but  passion.  When  we  took  our  ground  Vincent  came  to 
me,  and  said,  in  a  low  tone,  "  For  Heaven's  sake,  suffer  me  to 
accommodate  this,  if  possible  !  " 

"  It  is  not  in  our  power,"  said  I,  receiving  the  pistol.  I 
looked  steadily  at  de  Vautran,  and  took  my  aim.  His  pistol 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OP  A  GENTLEMAN.         160 

owing,  I  suppose,  to  the  trembling  of  his  hand,  went  off  a 
moment  sooner  than  he  had  anticipated — the  ball  grazed  my 
hat.  My  aim  was  more  successful — I  struck  him  in  the  shoul- 
der— the  exact  place  I  had  intended.  He  staggered  a  few- 
paces,  but  did  not  fall. 

We  hastened  towards  him — his  cheek  assumed  a  still  more 
livid  hue  as  I  approached.  He  muttered  some  half-formed 
curses  between  his  teeth,  and  turned  from  me  to  his  second. 

"  You  will  inquire  whether  Monsieur  de  Vautran  is  satisfied," 
said  I  to  Vincent,  and  retired  to  a  short  distance. 

"  His  second,"  said  Vincent  (after  a  brief  conference  with 
that  person),  "  replies  to  my  question  that  Monsieur  de  Vau- 
tran's  wound  has  left  him,  for  the  present,  no  alternative." 
Upon  this  answer  I  took  Vincent's  arm,  and  we  returned  forth- 
with to  my  carriage. 

"  I  congratulate  you  most  sincerely  on  the  event  of  this 
duel,"  said  Vincent.  "  Monsieur  de  M (de  Vautran's  sec- 
ond) informed  me,  when  I  waited  on  him,  that  your  antagonist 
was  one  of  the  most  celebrated  pistol  shots  in  Paris,  and  that  a 
lady,  with  whom  he  had  been  long  in  love,  made  the  death  of 
the  chain-bearer  the  price  of  her  favors.  Devilish  lucky  for 
you,  my  good  fellow,  that  his  hand  trembled  so  ;  but  I  did  not 
know  you  were  so  good  a  shot." 

"  Why,"  I  answered,  "  I  am  not  what  is  vulgarly  termed  '  a 
crack  shot ' — I  cannot  split  a  bullet  on  a  penknife  ;  but  I  am 
sure  of  a  target  somewhat  smaller  than  a  man  :  and  my  hand 
is  as  certain  in  the  field  as  it  is  in  the  practice-yard." 

"  Le  sentiment  de  nos  forces  les  cmgmentc"  *  replied  Vincent. 
"  Shall  I  tell  the  coachman  to  drive  to  the  Rocher  ? " 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

"  Here's  a  kind  host,  that  makes  the  invitation 
To  your  own  cost,  to  his  fort  bonne  collation." 

— WYCHERI.Y'S  Gent.  Dancing  Master. 

"  Vous  pouvez  bien  juger  que  je  n'aurai  pas"  grande  peine  a  me  consoler 
d'une  chose  dont  je  me  suis  deja  console  tante  de  fois. " — Lettres  de  BOILEAU. 

As  I  was  walking  home  with  Vincent,  from  the  Rue  Mont- 
orgueil,  I  saw,  on  entering  the  Rue  St.  Honore,  two  figures  be- 
fore us  ;  the  tall  and  noble  stature  of  the  one  I  could  not  for 

*  The  conviction  of  our  forces  augment  them. 


110  PELHAM  ; 

a  moment  mistake.  They  stopped  at  the  door  of  an  hotelj 
which  opened  in  that  noiseless  manner  so  peculiar  to  the  con- 
ciergerie  of  France.  I  was  at  the  door  the  moment  they  dis- 
appeared, but  not  before  I  had  caught  a  glance  of  the  dark 
locks  and  pale  countenance  of  Warburton, — my  eye  fell  upon 
the  number  of  the  hotel. 

"Surely,"  said  I,  "  I  have  been  in  that  house  before." 

"  Likely  enough,"  growled  Vincent,  who  was  gloriously 
drunk.  "  It  is  a  house  of  two-fold  utility — you  may  play  with 
cards,  or  coquet  with  women,  which  you  please." 

At  these  words  I  remembered  the  hotel  and  its  inmates  im- 
mediately. It  belonged  to  an  old  nobleman,  who,  though  on 
the  brink  of  the  grave,  was  still  grasping  at  the  good  things  on 
the  margin.  He  lived  with  a  pretty  and  clever  woman,  who 
bore  the  name  and  honors  of  his  wife.  They  kept  up  two 
salons,  one  pour  le  petit  souper,  and  the  other,  pour  le  petijeu. 
You  saw  much  /cart/  and  more  love-making,  and  lost  your 
heart  and  your  money  with  equal  facility.  In  a  word,  the 
marquis  and  h is  jolie  petite  fenimc  were  a  wise  and  prosperous 
couple,  who  made  the  best  of  their  lives,  and  lived  decently  and 
honorably  upon  other  people. 

"  Allans,  Pelham,"  cried  Vincent,  as  I  was  still  standing  at 
the  door  in  deliberation  ;  "  how  much  longer  will  you  keep  me 
to  congeal  in  this  '  eager  and  nipping  air  ' — '  Quamdiu  patien- 
tiam  nostram  abutere,  Catilina.'  " 

"Let  us  enter,"  said  I.  "I  have  the  run  of  the  house,  and 
we  may  find — " 

"Some  young  vices — some  fair  iniquities,'"  interrupted 
Vincent,  with  a  hiccup — 

"  '  Leade  on,  good  fellowe,'  quoth  Robin  Hood, 
'  Lead  on,  I  do  bid  thee.'  " 

And  with  these  words,  the  door  opened  in  obedience  to  my 
rap,  and  we  mounted  to  the  marquis's  tenement  au  premiere. 

The  room  was  pretty  full :  the  soi-disante  Marquise  was 
flitting  from  table  to  table,  betting  at  each,  and  coquetting 
with  all ;  and  the  Marquis  himself,  with  a  moist  eye  and  a 
shaking  hand,  was  affecting  the  Don  Juan  with  the  various 
Elviras  and  Annas  with  which  his  salon  was  crowded.  Vincent 
was  trying  to  follow  me  through  the  crowd,  but  his  confused 
vision  and  unsteady  footing  led  him  from  one  entanglement  to 
another,  till  he  was  quite  unable  to  proceed.  A  tall,  corpulent 
Frenchman,  six  foot  by  five,  was  leaning  (a  great  and  weighty 
objection),  just  before  him,  utterly  occupied  in  the  vicissitudes 
of  an  /cart/  table,  and  unconscious  of  Vincent's  repeated 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         lit 

efforts,  first  on  one  side,  and  then  on  the  other,  to  pass  him. 
At  last,  the  perplexed  wit,  getting  more  irascible  as  he  grew 
more  bewildered,  suddenly  seized  the  vast  encumbrance  by  the 
arm,  and  said  to  him,  in  a  sharp,  querulous  tone,  "Pray,  monsieur, 
why  are  you  like  the  lotc  tree  in  Mahomet's  Seventh  heaven?" 

"Sir/"  cried  the  astonished  Frenchman. 

"  Because  "  (continued  Vincent,  answering  his  own  enigma), 
"  Because  beyond  you  there  is  no  passing!" 

The  Frenchman  (one  of  that  race  who  always  forgive  any- 
thing for  a  bon  mot}  smiled,  bowed,  and  drew  himself  aside. 
Vincent  steered  by,  and  joining  me,  hiccuped  out,  "Fortiaque 
adversis  opponite  pectora  rebus." 

Meanwhile  I  had  looked  round  the  room  for  the  objects  of 
my  pursuit :  to  my  great  surprise  I  could  not  perceive  them  ; 
they  may  be  in  the  other  room,  thought  I,  and  to  the  other 
room  I  went ;  the  supper  was  laid  out,  and  an  old  bonne  was 
quietly  helping  herself  to  some  sweetmeat.  All  other  human 
beings  (if,  indeed,  an  old  woman  can  be  called  a  human  being!) 
were,  however,  invisible,  and  I  remained  perfectly  bewildered 
as  to  the  non-appearance  of  Warburton  and  his  companion, 
I  entered  the  gamin g-room  once  more — I  looked  round  in 
every  corner — I  examined  every  face — but  in  vain  ;  and  with 
a  feeling  of  disappointment  very  disproportioned  to  my  loss,  I 
took  Vincent's  arm,  and  we  withdrew. 

The  next  morning  I  spent  with  Madame  d'Anville.  A 
Frenchwoman  easily  consoles  herself  for  the  loss  of  a  lover  :  she 
converts  him  into  a  friend,  and  thinks  herself  (nor  is  she  much 
deceived)  benefited  by  the  exchange.  We  talked  of  our  grief 
in  maxims,  and  bade  each  other  adieu  in  antitheses.  Ah  !  it 
is  a  pleasant  thing  to  drink  with  Alcidonis  (in  Marmontel's 
Tale)  of  the  rose-colored  phial — to  sport  with  the  fancy,  not  to 
brood  over  the  passion  of  youth.  There  is  a  time  when  the 
heart,  from  very  tenderness,  runs  over,  and  (so  much  do  our 
virtues  as  well  as  vices  flow  from  our  passions)  there  is,  per- 
haps, rather  hope  than  anxiety  for  the  future  in  that  excess 
Then,  if  Pleasure  errs,  it  errs  through  heedlessness,  not  design  ; 
and  Love,  wandering  over  flowers,  "proffers  honey,  but  bears 
not  a  sting."  Ah  !  happy  time  !  in  the  lines  of  one  who  can  c& 
well  translate  feeling  into  words  : 

"  Fate  has  not  darkened  thee — Hope  has  not  made 
The  blossoms  expand  it  but  opens  to  fade  ; 
Nothing  is  known  of  those  wearing  fears 
Which  will  shadow  the  light  of  our  after~years." 

—  Thf  Improvisatrice. 


112  frfcLHAM  ; 

Pardon  this  digression — not  much,  it  must  be  confessed,  in 
my  ordinary  strain — but  let  me,  dear  reader,  very  seriously  ad- 
vise thee  not  to  judge  of  me  yet.  When  thou  hast  got  to  the 
end  of  my  book,  if  thou  dost  condemn  it  or  its  hero — why  "  I 
will  let  thee  alone"  (as  honest  Dogberry  advises)  "till  thou 
art  sober  ;  and,  if  thou  make  me  not,  then,  the  better  answer, 
thou  art  not  the  man  I  took  thee  for." 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

"  It  must  be  confessed,  that  flattery  comes  mightily  easy  to  one's  mouth 
in  the  presence  of  royalty." — Letters  0/  STEPHEN  MONTAGUE. 

"  'Tis  he. — How  came  he  thence — what  doth  he  here?" — Lara. 

I  HAD  received  for  that  evening  (my  last  at  Paris)  an  invita- 
tion from  the  Duchesse  de  B .  I  knew  that  the  party  was 

to  be  small,  and  that  very  few  besides  the  royal  family  would 
compose  it.  I  had  owed  the  honor  of  this  invitation  to  my  in- 
timacy with  the s,  the  great  friends  of  the  Duchesse,  and 

I  promised  myself  some  pleasure  in  the  engagement. 

There  were  but  eight  or  nine  persons  present  when  I  entered 
the  royal  chamber.  The  most  distinguished  I  recognized  imme- 
diately as  the .  He  came  forward  with  much  grace  as  I 

approached,  and  expressed  his  pleasure  at  seeing  me. 

"  You  were  presented,  I  think,  about  a  month  ago,"  added 

the ,  with  a  smile  of  singular  fascination  ;  "  I  remember  it 

well." 

I  bowed  low  to  this  compliment. 

"  Do  you  propose  staying  long  at  Paris  ? "  continued 
the . 

"  I  protracted,"  I  replied, "  my  departure  solely  for  the  honor 

this  evening  affords  me.  In  so  doing,  please  your ,  I  have 

followed  the  wise  maxim  of  keeping  the  greatest  pleasure  to 
the  last." 

The  royal  chevalier  bowed  to  my  answer  with  a  smile  still 
sweeter  than  before,  and  began  a  conversation  with  me  which 

lasted  for  several  minutes.  I  was  much  struck  with  the 's 

air  and  bearing.  They  possess  great  dignity,  without  any  affec- 
tation of  its  assumption.  He  speaks  peculiarly  good  English,  and 
the  compliment  of  addressing  me  in  that  language  was  there- 
fore as  judicious  as  delicate.  His  observations  owed  little  to 
his  rank  ;  they  would  have  struck  you  as  appropriate,  and  the  air 


OR,  ADVENTURES   OF    A    GENTLEMAN.  113 

which  accompanied  them  pleased  you  as  graceful,  even  in  a 
simple  individual.  Judge,  then,  if  they  charmed  me  in 

the .  The  upper  part  of  his  countenance  is  prominent 

and  handsome,  and  his  eyes  have  much  softness  of  expression. 
His  figure  is  slight  and  particularly  well  knit ;  perhaps  he  is  al- 
together more  adapted  to  strike  in  private  than  with  public 
effect.  Upon  the  whole,  he  is  one  of  those  very  few  persons 
of  great  rank  whom  you  would  have  had  pride  in  knowing  as 
an  equal,  and  have  pleasure  in  acknowledging  as  a  superior.* 

As  the paused,  and  turned  with  great  courtesy  to  the 

Due  de ,  I  bowed  my  way  to  the  Duchesse  de  B . 

That  personage  whose  liveliness  and  piquancy  of  manner  always 
make  one  wish  for  one's  own  sake  that  her  rank  was  Jess  ex- 
alted, was  speaking  with  great  volubility  to  a  tall,  stupid-look- 
ing man,  one  of  the  ministers,  and  smiled  most  graciously  upon 
me  as  I  drew  near.  She  spoke  to  me  of  our  national  amuse- 
ments. "  You  are  not,"  said  she,  "  so  fond  of  dancing  as  we 
are." 

"  We  have  not  the  same  exalted  example  to  be  at  once  our 
motive  and  our  model,"  said  I,  in  allusion  to  the  Duchesse's 
well-known  attachment  to  that  accomplishment.  The  Duch- 
esse d'A came  up  as  I  said  this,  and  the  conversation 

flowed  on  evenly  enough  till  the 's  whist  party  was  formed. 

His  partner  was  Madame  de  la  R ,  the  heroine  of  La  Ven- 

de"e.  She  was  a  tall  and  very  stout  woman,  singularly  lively 
and  entertaining,  and  appeared  to  possess  both  the  moral  and 
the  physical  energy  to  accomplish  feats  still  more  noble  than 
those  she  performed. 

I  soon  saw  that  it  would  not  do  for  me  to  stay  very  long.  I 
had  already  made  a  favorable  impression,  and,  in  such  cases, 
it  is  my  constant  rule  immediately  to  retire.  Stay,  if  it  be  whole 
hours,  until  you  have  pleased,  but  leave  the  moment  after  your 
success.  A  great  genius  should  not  linger  too  long  either  in 
the  salen  or  the  world.  He  must  quit  each  with  e'clat.  In 
obedience  to  this  rule,  I  no  sooner  found  that  my  court  had 
been  effectually  made  than  I  rose  to  withdraw. 

"You   will  return   soon    to  Paris,"  said   the  Duchesse  de 

"I  cannot  resist  it,"  I  replied.  " Mon  corps  reviendra pour 
chercher  mon  cceur." 

*  The  sketch  of  these  unfortunate  members  of  an  exiledand  illustrious  family  may  not 
be  the  less  interesting  from  the  reverses  which,  since  the  first  publication  of  this  work, 
placed  the  Orleans  family  on  the  Bourbon  throne.  As  for  the  erring  Charles  X.,  he  was 
neither  a  great  monarch  nor  a  wise  man,  but  he  was,  in  air,  grace,  and  manner,  the  most 
thoroughbred  gentleman  I  ever  met,—//,  f. 


114  FELHAM  J 

"  We  shall  not  forget  you,"  said  the  Duchesse. 

"  Your  Royal  Highness  has  now  given  me  my  only  induce- 
ment not  to  return,"  I  answered  as  I  bowed  out  of  the  room. 

It  was  much  too  early  to  go  home  ;  at  that  time  I  was  too 
young  and  restless  to  sleep  till  long  after  midnight  ;  and  while 
I  was  deliberating  in  what  manner  to  pass  the  hours,  I  sud- 
denly recollected  the  hotel  in  the  Rue  St.  Honore\  to  which 
Vincent  and  I  had  paid  so  unceremonious  a  visit  the  night  be- 
fore. Impressed  with  the  hope  that  I  might  be  more  success- 
ful in  meeting  Warburton  than  I  had  then  been,  I  ordered  the 
coachman  to  drive  to  the  abode  of  the  old  Marquis . 

The  salon  was  crowded  as  usual.  I  lost  a  few  Napoleons  at 
faarte  in  order  to  pay  my  entree,  and  then  commenced  a  de- 
sultory flirtation  with  one  of  the  fair  decoys.  In  this  occupa- 
tion my  eye  and  my  mind  frequently  wandered.  I  could  not 
divest  myself  of  the  hope  of  once  more  seeing  Warburton  be- 
fore my  departure  from  Paris,  and  every  reflection  which  con- 
firmed my  suspicions  of  his  identity  redoubled  my  interest  in 
his  connection  with  Tyrrell  and  the  vulgar  de'bauche" of  the  Rue 
St.  Dominique.  I  was  making  some  languid  reply  to  my  Cyn- 
thia of  the  minute,  when  my  ear  was  suddenly  greeted  by  an 
English  voice.  I  looked  around  and  saw  Thornton  in  close 
conversation  with  a  man  whose  back  was  turned  to  me,  but 
whom  I  rightly  conjectured  to  be  Tyrrell. 

"Oh  !  he'll  be  here  soon,"  said  the  former,  "and  we'll  bleed 
him  regularly  to-night.  It  is  very  singular  that  you  who  play 
so  much  better  should  not  have  floored  him  yesterday  evening." 

Tyrrell  replied  in  a  tone  so  low  as  to  be  inaudible,  and  a 
minute  afterwards  the  door  opened,  and  Warburton  entered. 
He  came  up  instantly  to  Thornton  and  his  companion  ;  and 
after  a  few  words  of  ordinary  salutation,  Warburton  said,  in 
one  of  those  modulated  but  artificial  tones  so  peculiar  to  him- 
self, "  I  am  sure,  Tyrrell,  that  you  must  be  eager  for  your  re- 
venge. To  lose  to  such  a  mere  tyro  as  myself  is  quite  enough 
to  double  the  pain  of  defeat,  and  the  desire  of  retaliation." 

I  did  not  hear  Tyrrell's  reply,  but  the  trio  presently  moved 
towards  the  door,  which  till  then  I  had  not  noticed,  and  which 
was  probably  the  entrance  to  our  hostess's  boudoir.  The  sot- 
disante  Marquise  opened  it  herself,  for  which  kind  office 
Thornton  gave  her  a  leer  and  a  wink,  characteristic  of  his 
claims  to  gallantry.  When  the  door  was  again  closed  upon 
them,  I  went  up  to  the  Marquise,  and  after  a  few  compliments, 
asked  whether  the  room  Messieurs  les  Anglais  had  entered  was 
equally  open  to  all  guests  ? 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          1 15 

"Why,"  said  she,  with  a  slight  hesitation,  "those  gentlemen 
play  for  higher  stakes  than  we  usually  do  here,  and  one  of 
them  is  apt  to  get  irritated  by  the  advice  and  expostulations  of 
the  lookers-on  ;  and  so  after  they  had  played  a  short  time  in 
the  salon  last  night,  Monsieur  Thornton,  a  very  old  friend  of 
mine  (here  the  lady  looked  down),  asked  me  permission  to 
occupy  the  inner  room  ;  and  as  I  knew  him  so  well,  I  could 
have  no  scruple  in  obliging  him." 

"Then,  I  suppose,"  said  I,  "that,  as  a  stranger,  I  have  not 
permission  to  intrude  upon  them?" 

"Shall  I  inquire?"  answered  the  Marquise. 

"No,"  said  I,  "it  is  not  worth  while"  ;  and  accordingly  I  re- 
seated myself,  and  appeared  once  more  occupied  in  saying 
des  belles  choses  to  my  kind-hearted  neighbor.  I  could  not, 
however,  with  all  my  dissimulation,  sustain  a  conversation 
from  which  my  present  feelings  were  so  estranged  for  more 
than  a  few  minutes ;  and  I  was  never  more  glad  than  when  my 
companion,  displeased  with  my  inattention,  rose,  and  left  me 
to  my  own  reflections. 

What  could  Warburton  (if  he  were  the  person  I  suspected) 
gain  by  the  disguise  he  had  assumed?  He  was  too  rich  to 
profit  by  any  sums  he  could  win  from  Tyrrell,  and  too  much 
removed  from  Thornton's  station  in  life  to  derive  any  pleasure 
or  benefit  from  his  acquaintance  with  that  person.  His  dark 
threats  of  vengeance  in  the  Jardin  des  Plantes,  and  his  refer- 
ence to  the  two  hundred  pounds  Tyrrell  possessed,  gave  me, 
indeed,  some  clue  as  to  hi:>  real  object ;  but  then — why  this 
disguise  !  Had  he  known  Tyrrell  before,  in  his  proper  sem- 
blance, and  had  anything  passed  between  them  which  rendered 
this  concealment  now  expedient?  This,  indeed,  seemed  prob- 
able enough;  but  was  Thornton  entrusted  with  the  secret? 
And,  if  revenge  was  the  object,  was  that  low  man  a  partaker 
in  its  execution  ?  Or  was  he  not,  more  probably,  playing  the 
traitor  to  both  ?  As  for  Tyrrell  himself,  his  own  designs  upon 
Warburton  were  sufficient  to  prevent  pity  for  any  fall  into  the 
pit  he  had  digged  for  others. 

Meanwhile  time  passed  on,  the  hour  grew  late,  and  the 
greater  part  of  the  guests  were  gone  ;  still  I  could  not  tear 
myself  away  ;  I  looked  from  time  to  time  at  the  door  with  an 
indescribable  feeling  of  anxiety.  I  longed,  yet  dreaded,  for  ifc 
to  open  ;  I  felt  as  if  my  own  fate  were  in  some  degree  impli- 
cated in  what  was  then  agitating  within,  and  I  could  not 
resolve  to  depart  until  I  had  formed  some  conclusions  on  the 
result. 


Il6  PELHAM  ; 

At  length  the  door  opened  ;  Tyrrell  came  forth — his  coun- 
tenance was  perfectly  hueless,  his  cheek  was  sunk  and  hollow, 
the  excitement  of  two  hours  had  been  sufficient  to  make  it  so. 
I  observed  that  his  teeth  were  set,  and  his  hands  clenched,  as 
they  are  when  we  idly  seek,  by  the  strained  and  extreme  ten- 
sion of  the  nerves,  to  sustain  the  fever  and  the  agony  of  the 
mind.  Warburton  and  Thornton  followed  him  ;  the  latter  with 
his  usual  air  of  reckless  indifference  ;  his  quick  rolling  eye 
glanced  from  the  Marquis  to  myself,  and  though  his  color 
changed  slightly,  his  nod  of  recognition  was  made  with  its 
wonted  impudence  and  ease  ;  but  Warburton  passed  on,  like 
Tyrrell,  without  noticing  or  heeding  anything  around.  He 
fixed  his  large  bright  eye  upon  the  figure  which  preceded  him, 
without  once  altering  its  direction,  and  the  extreme  beauty  of 
his  features,  which  not  all  the  dishevelled  length  of  his  hair 
and  whiskers  could  disguise,  was  lighted  up  with  a  joyous  but 
savage  expression,  which  made  me  turn  away,  almost  with  a 
sensation  of  fear. 

Just  as  Tyrrell  was  leaving  the  room,  Warburton  put  his 
hand  upon  his  shoulder  :  "  Stay,"  said  he,  "  I  am  going  your 
way  and  will  accompany  you."  He  turned  round  to  Thornton 
(who  was  already  talking  with  the  Marquis)  as  he  said  this,  and 
waved  his  hand,  as  if  to  prevent  his  following  ;  the  next  mo- 
ment Tyrrell  and  himself  had  left  the  room. 

I  could  not  now  remain  longer.  I  felt  a  feverish  restless- 
ness which  impelled  me  onwards.  I  quitted  the  salon,  and  was 
on  the  staircase  before  the  gamesters  had  descended.  War- 
burton  was,  indeed,  but  a  few  steps  before  me  ;  the  stairs  were 
but  very  dimly  lighted  by  one  expiring  lamp  ;  he  did  not  turn 
round  to  see  me,  and  was  probably  too  much  engrossed  to 
hear  me. 

"You  may  yet  have  a  favorable  reverse,"  said  he  to  Tyrrell. 

"  Impossible  !  "  replied  the  latter,  in  a  tone  of  such  deep  an- 
guish that  it  thrilled  me  to  the  very  heart.  "  I  am  an  utter 
beggar — I  have  nothing  in  the  world — I  have  no  expectation 
but  to  starve  !  " 

While  he  was  saying  this  I  perceived  by  the  faint  and  uncer- 
tain light  that  Warburton's  hand  was  raised  to  his  own  coun- 
tenance. 

"  Have  you  no  hope — no  spot  wherein  to  look  lor  comfort  ? 
Is  beggary  your  absolute  and  only  possible  resource  from  fam- 
ine ?  "  he  replied  in  a  low  and  suppressed  tone. 

At  that  moment  we  were  just  descending  into  the  courtyard. 
Warburton  was  but  one  step  behind  Tyrrell  :  the  latter  made 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         llf 

no  answer  ;  but  as  he  passed  from  the  dark  staircase  into  the 
clear  moonlight  of  the  court,  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  big 
tears  which  rolled  heavily  and  silently  down  his  cheeks.  War- 
burton  laid  his  hand  upon  him. 

44  Turn,"  he  cried  suddenly ;  "  your  cup  is  not  yet  full — look 
upon  me — and  remember  /" 

I  pressed  forward.  The  light  shone  full  upon  the  counte- 
nance of  the  speaker — the  dark  hair  was  gone — my  suspicions 
were  true — I  discovered  at  once  the  bright  locks  and  lofty 
brow  of  Reginald  Glanville.  Slowly  Tyrrell  gazed,  as  if  he 
were  endeavoring  to  repel  some  terrible  remembrance,  which 
gathered,  with  every  instant,  more  fearfully  upon  him  ;  until, 
as  the  stern  countenance  of  Glanville  grew  darker  and  darker 
in  its  mingled  scorn  and  defiance,  he  uttered  one  low  cry,  and 
sank  senseless  upon  the  earth. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

"  Well,  he  is  gone,  and  with  him  go  these  thoughts."  —  SHAKSPEARE. 
"What  ho  !  for  England  !  "— 


I  HAVE  always  had  an  insuperable  horror  of  being  placed  in 
what  the  vulgar  call  a  predicament.  In  a  predicament  I  was 
most  certainly  placed  at  the  present  moment.  A  man  at  my 
feet  in  a  fit  —  the  cause  of  it  having  very  wisely  disappeared, 
devolving  upon  me  the  charge  of  watching,  recovering,  and 
conducting  home  the  afflicted  person  —  made  a  concatenation 
of  disagreeable  circumstances  as  much  unsuited  to  the  temper 
of  Henry  Pelham  as  his  evil  fortune  could  possibly  have  con- 
trived. 

After  a  short  pause  of  deliberation  I  knocked  up  the  porter, 
procured  some  cold  water,  and  bathed  Tyrrell's  temples  for 
several  moments  before  he  recovered.  He  opened  his  eyes 
slowly,  and  looked  carefully  around  with  a  fearful  and  suspi- 
cious glance  :  "  Gone  —  gone  —  (he  muttered)  —  ay  —  what  did 
he  here  at  such  a  moment  ?  —  vengeance  —  for  what  ?  /  could 
not  tell  it  would  have  killed  her  —  let  him  thank  his  own  folly. 
I  do  not  fear  ;  I  defy  his  malice."  And  with  these  words 
Tyrrell  sprung  to  his  feet. 

44  Can  I  assist  you  to  your  home?"  said  I;  "you  are  still 
unwell  ;  pray  suffer  me  to  have  that  pleasure." 

I  spoke  with  some  degree  of  warmth  and  sincerity  ;  the  un« 


Il8  PELHAM  J 

fortunate  man  stared  wildly  at  me  for  a  moment  before  he  re- 
plied. "Who,"  said  he,  at  last,  "  who  speaks  to  me — the  lost — 
the  guilty — the  ruined,  in  the  accents  of  interest  and  kind- 
ness ?" 

I  placed  his  arm  in  mine,  and  drew  him  out  of  the  yard  into 
the  open  street.  He  looked  at  me  with  an  eager  and  wistful 
survey,  and  then,  by  degrees,  appearing  to  recover  his  full  con- 
sciousness of  the  present,  and  recollection  of  the  past,  he 
pressed  my  hand  warmly,  and  after  a  short  silence,  during 
which  he  moved  on  slowly  towards  the  Tuileries,  he  said  : 
"  Pardon  me,  sir,  if  I  have  not  sufficiently  thanked  you  for 
your  kindness  and  attention.  I  am  now  quite  restored  ;  the 
close  room  in  which  I  have  been  sitting  for  so  many  hours, 
and  the  feverish  excitement  of  play,  acting  upon  a  frame 
much  debilitated  by  ill  health,  occasioned  my  momentary  in- 
disposition. I  am  now,  I  repeat,  quite  recovered,  and  will  no 
longer  trespass  upon  your  good-nature." 

"  Really,"  said  I,  "  you  had  better  not  discard  my  services 
yet.  Do  suffer  me  to  accompany  you  home  ?  " 

"  Home  !  "  muttered  Tyrrell,  with  a  deep  sigh  ;  "  no — no  ! " 
and  then,  as  if  recollecting  himself,  he  said,  "  I  thank  you,  sir, 
but— but— " 

I  saw  his  embarrassment,  and  interrupted  him. 

"Well,  if  I  cannot  assist  you  any  further,  I  will  take  your 
dismissal.  I  trust  we  shall  meet  again  under  auspices  better 
calculated  for  improving  acquaintance." 

Tyrrell  bowed,  once  more  pressed  my  hand,  and  we  parted. 
I  hurried  on  up  the  long  street  towards  my  hotel. 

When  I  had  got  several  paces  beyond  Tyrrell  I  turned  back 
to  look  at  him.  He  was  standing  in  the  same  place  in  which 
I  had  left  him.  I  saw  by  the  moonlight  that  his  face  and 
hands  were  raised  towards  Heaven.  It  was  but  for  a  moment: 
his  attitude  changed  while  I  was  yet  looking,  and  he  slowly 
and  calmly  continued  his  way  in  the  same  direction  as  myself. 
When  I  reached  my  chambers  I  hastened  immediately  to  bed, 
but  not  to  sleep  :  the  extraordinary  scene  I  had  witnessed  ; 
the  dark  and  ferocious  expression  of  Glanville's  countenance, 
so  strongly  impressed  with  every  withering  and  deadly  passion  ; 
the  fearful  and  unaccountable  remembrance  that  had  seemed 
to  gather  over  the  livid  and  varying  face  of  the  gamester;  the 
mystery  of  Glanville's  disguise  ;  the  intensity  of  a  revenge  so 
terribly  expressed,  together  with  the  restless  and  burning 
anxiety  I  felt — not  from  idle  curiosity,  but,  from  my  early  and 
intimate  friendship  for  Glanville,  to  fathom  its  cause — all 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          1 1() 

crowded  upon  my  mind  with  a  feverish  confusion,  that  effect- 
ually banished  repose. 

It  was  with  that  singular  sensation  of  pleasure  which  none 
but  those  who  have  passed  frequent  nights  in  restless  and  pain- 
ful agitation  can  recognize,  that  I  saw  the  bright  sun  penetrate 
through  my  shutters,  and  heard  Bedos  move  across  my  room. 

"  What  hour  will  monsieur  have  the  post-horses  ?  "  said  that 
praiseworthy  valet. 

"  At  eleven,"  answered  I,  springing  out  of  bed  with  joy  at 
the  change  of  scene  which  the  very  mention  of  my  journey 
brought  before  my  mind. 

I  was  turning  listlessly,  as  I  sat  at  breakfast,  over  the  pages 
of  Galignani's  Messenger,  when  the  following  paragraph  caught 
my  attention  : 

"  It  is  rumored  among  the  circles  of  the  Faubourg  that  a 

duel  was  fought  on ,  between  a  young  Englishman  and 

Monsieur  D ;  the  cause  of  it  is  said  to  be  the  pretensions 

of  both  to  the  beautiful  Duchesse  de  P ,  who,  if  report  be 

true,  cares  for  neither  of  the  gallants,  but  lavishes  her  favors 
upon  a  certain  attach^  to  the  English  embassy." 

"  Such,"  thought  I,  "are  the  materials  for  all  human  histories. 
Every  one  who  reads  will  eagerly  swallow  this  account  as  true  : 
if  an  author  were  writing  the  memoirs  of  the  court,  he  would 
compile  his  facts  and  scandal  from  this  very  collection  of 
records  ;  and  yet,  though  so  near  the  truth,  how  totally  false 
it  is  !  Thank  Heaven,  however,  that,  at  least,  I  am  not  sus- 
pected of  the  degradation  of  the  Duchess's  love :  to  fight  for 
her  may  make  me  seem  a  fool,  to  be  loved  by  her  would  con- 
stitute me  a  villain." 

"  The  horses,  sir !"  said  Bedos;  and  "The  bill,  sir?"  said 
the  garfon.  Alas !  that  those  and  that  should  be  so  coupled 
together ;  and  that  we  can  never  take  our  departure  without 
such  awful  witnesses  of  our  sojourn.  Well,  to  be  brief,  the 
bill  for  once  was  discharged — the  horses  snorted — the  carriage- 
door  was  opened — I  entered — Bedos  mounted  behind — crack 
went  the  whips — off  went  the  steeds,  and  so  terminated  my 
adventures  at  dear  Paris. 


120  PELHAM 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

"Oh,  cousin,  you  know  him — the  fine  gentleman  they  talk  of  so  much  in 
town ." — WYCHERLY'S  Dancing  Master. 

BY  the  bright  days  of  my  youth,  there  is  something  truly 
delightful  in  the  quick  motion  of  four,  ay,  or  even  two  post- 
horses  !  In  France,  where  one's  steeds  are  none  of  the  swift- 
est, the  pleasures  of  travelling  are  not  quite  so  great  as  in  Eng- 
land ;  still,  however,  to  a  man  who  is  tired  of  one  scene — 
panting  for  another — in  love  with  excitement,  and  yet  not 
wearied  of  its  pursuit,  the  turnpike  road  is  more  grateful  than 
the  easiest  chair  ever  invented,  and  the  little  prison  we  entitle 
a  carriage  more  cheerful  than  the  state  rooms  of  Devonshire 
House. 

We  reached  Calais  in  safety  and  in  good  time  the  next  day. 

"  Will  Monsieur  dine  in  his  rooms,  or  at  the  table  d'hote?  " 

"In  his  rooms,  of  course,"  said  Bedos,  indignantly  deciding 
the  question.  A  French  valet's  dignity  is  always  involved  in 
his  master's. 

"  You  are  too  good,  Bedos,"  said  I,  "  I  shall  dine  at  the 
table  d'hote — whom  have  you  there  in  general  ?" 

"  Really,"  said  the  garfon,  "  we  have  such  a  swift  succession 
of  guests,  that  we  seldom  see  the  same  faces  two  days  running. 
We  have  as  many  changes  as  an  English  administration." 

"  You  are  facetious,"  said  I. 

"  No,"  returned  the  garcon,  who  was  a  philosopher  as  well  as 
a  wit  ;  "  no,  my  digestive  organs  are  very  weak,  and  par  conse*- 
quence,  I  am  naturally  melancholy.  Ah,  ma  foi,  tres  triste !  " 
and  with  these  words  the  sentimental  plate-changer  placed  his 
hand — I  can  scarcely  say,  whether  on  his  heart  or  his  stomach, 
and  sighed  bitterly  ! 

"  How  long,"  said  I,  "does  it  want  to  dinner?"  My  ques- 
tion restored  the  garfon  to  himself. 

"Two  hours,  monsieur,  two  hours,"  and  twirling  his  serviette 
with  an  air  of  exceeding  importance,  off  went  my  melancholy 
acquaintance  to  compliment  new  customers,  and  complain  of 
his  digestion. 

After  I  had  arranged  my  toilet,  yawned  three  times,  and 
drunk  two  bottles  of  soda-water,  I  strolled  into  the  town.  As 
I  was  sauntering  along  leisurely  enough,  I  heard  my  name  pro- 
nounced behind  me.  I  turned,  and  saw  Sir  Willoughby  Town- 
shend,  an  old  baronet  of  an  antediluvian  age — a  fossil  witness  of 
the  wonders  of  England  before  the  deluge  of  French  manners 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          121 

swept  away  ancient  customs,  and  created,  out  of  the  wrecks  of 
what  had  been,  a  new  order  of  things,  and  a  new  race  of  man- 
kind. 

"  Ah  !  my  dear  Mr.  Pelham,  how  are  you  ?  And  the  worthy 
Lady  Frances,  your  mother,  and  your  excellent  father,  all  well  ? 
I'm  delighted  to  hear  it.  Russelton,"  continued  Sir  Willoughby, 
turning  to  a  middle-aged  man,  whose  arm  he  held,  "you  re- 
member Pelham — true  Whig — great  friend  of  Sheridan's?  Let 
me  introduce  his  son  to  you.  Mr.  Russelton,  Mr.  Pelham  ; 
Mr.  Pelham,  Mr.  Russelton." 

At  the  name  of  the  person  thus  introduced  to  me  a  thousand 
recollections  crowded  upon  my  mind  ;  the  contemporary  and 
rival  of  Napoleon  ;  the  autocrat  of  the  great  world  of  fashion 
and  cravats  ;  the  mighty  genius  before  whom  aristocracy  hath 
been  humbled  and  ton  abashed  ;  at  whose  nod  the  haughtiest 
noblesse  of  Europe  had  quailed  ;  who  had  introduced  by  a  sin- 
gle example  starch  into  neckcloths,  and  had  fed  the  pampered 
appetite  of  his  boot-tops  on  champagne ;  whose  coat  and 
whose  friend  were  cut  with  an  equal  grace  ;  and  whose  name 
was  connected  with  every  triumph  that  the  world's  great  virtue 
of  audacity  could  achieve — the  illustrious,  the  immortal  Rus- 
selton, stood  before  me !  I  recognized  in  him  a  congenial, 
though  a  superior,  spirit,  and  I  bowed  with  a  profundity  of 
veneration  with  which  no  other  human  being  has  ever  in- 
spired me. 

Mr.  Russelton  seemed  pleased  with  my  evident  respect,  and 
returned  my  salutation  with  a  mock  dignity  which  enchanted 
me.  He  offered  me  his  disengaged  arm  ;  I  took  it  with  tran- 
sport, and  we  all  three  proceeded  up  the  street. 

"  So,"  said  Sir  Willoughby  ;  "so,  Russelton,  you  like  your 
quarters  here  ;  plenty  of  sport  among  the  English,  I  should 
think :  you  have  not  forgot  the  art  of  quizzing ;  eh,  old 
fellow?" 

"Even  if  I  had,"  said  Mr.  Russelton,  speaking  very  slowly, 
"  the  sight  of  Sir  Willoughby  Townshend  would  be  quite  suffi- 
cient to  refresh  my  memory.  Yes,"  continued  the  venerable 
wreck,  after  a  short  pause;  "yes,  I  like  my  residence  pretty 
well ;  I  enjoy  a  calm  conscience,  and  a  clean  shirt  :  what  more 
can  man  desire  ?  I  have  made  acquaintance  with  a  tame 
parrot,  and  I  have  taught  it  to  say,  whenever  an  English  fool 
with  a  stiff  neck  and  a  loose  swagger  passes  him  :  '  True 
Briton — true  Briton.'  I  take  care  of  my  health,  and  reflect 
upon  old  age.  I  have  read  Gil  Bias,  and  the  Whole  Duty  of 
Man ;  and,  in  short,  what  with  instructing  my  parrot,  arid  im- 


122  PELHAM  j 

proving  myself,  I  think  I  pass  my  time  as  creditably  and 

decorously  as  the  Bishop  of  Winchester,  or  my  Lord  of  A 

himself.  So  you  have  just  come  from  Paris,  I  presume,  Mr. 
Pelham  ?" 

"I  left  it  yesterday  !" 

"  Full  of  those  horrid  English,  I  suppose  ;  thrusting  their 
broad  hats  and  narrow  minds  into  every  shop  in  the  Palais 
Royal j  winking  their  dull  eyes  at  the  damsels  of  the  counter, 
and  manufacturing  their  notions  of  French  into  a  higgle  for 
sous.  Oh  !  the  monsters  !  they  bring  on  a  bilious  attack  when- 
ever I  think  of  them  :  the  other  day  one  of  them  accosted  me, 
and  talked  me  into  a  nervous  fever  about  patriotism  and  roast 
pigs  :  luckily  I  was  near  my  own  house,  and  reached  it  before 
the  thing  became  fatal  ;  but  only  think,  had  I  wandered  too 
far  when  he  met  me  !  at  my  time  of  life,  the  shock  would  have 
been  too  great ;  I  should  certainly  have  perished  in  a  fit.  I 
hope,  at  least,  they  would  have  put  the  cause  of  my  death  in 
my  epitaph  :  '  Died,  of  an  Englishman,  John  Russelton,  Esq., 
aged/  etc.  Pah  !  You  are  not  engaged,  Mr.  Pelham  ;  dine 
with  me  to-day  ;  Willoughby  and  his  umbrella  are  coming." 

"  Volontiers"  said  I,  "though  I  was  going  to  make  observa- 
tions on  men  and  manners  at  the  table  d'hdte  of  my  hotel." 

"  I  am  most  truly  grieved,"  replied  Mr.  Russelton,  "  at  de- 
priving you  of  so  much  amusement.  With  me  you  will  only 
find  some  tolerable  Lafitte,  and  an  anomalous  dish  mycuisinttre 
calls  a  mutton  chop.  It  will  be  curious  to  see  what  variation 
in  the  monotony  of  mutton  she  will  adopt  to-day.  The  first 
time  I  ordered  'a  chop,'  I  thought  I  had  amply  explained  every 
necessary  particular  ;  a  certain  portion  of  flesh,  and  a  gridiron  : 
at  seven  o'clock  up  came  a  ctitelette  pande  !  Fautt  de  tm'eux,  I 
swallowed  the  composition,  drowned  as  it  was  in  a  most  perni- 
cious sauce.  I  had  one  hour's  sleep,  and  the  nightmare,  in 
consequence.  The  next  day  I  imagined  no  mistake  could  be 
made  :  sauce  was  strictly  prohibited  ;  all  extra  ingredients  laid 
under  a  most  special  veto,  and  a  natural  gravy  gently  recom- 
mended :  the  cover  was  removed,  and  lo !  a  breast  of  mutton, 
all  bone  and  gristle,  like  the  dying  gladiator  !  This  time  my 
heart  was  too  full  for  wrath  ;  I  sat  down  and  wept  !  To-day 
will  be  the  third  time  I  shall  make  the  experiment,  if  French 
cooks  will  consent  to  let  one  starve  upon  nature.  For  my 
part,  I  have  no  stomach  left  now  for  art  :  I  wore  out  my  diges- 
tion in  youth,  swallowing  Jack  St.  Leger's  suppers,  and  Sheri- 
dan's promises  to  pay.  Pray,  Mr.  Pelham,  did  you  try  Staub 
when  you  were  at  Paris  ?  " 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          123 

"  Yes  ;  and  thought  him  one  degree  better  than  Stultz,  whom, 
indeed,  I  have  long  condemned,  as  fit  only  for  minors  at  Ox- 
ford, and  majors  in  the  infantry." 

"  True,"  said  Russelton,  with  a  very  faint  smile  at  a  pun 
somewhat  in  his  own  way,  and  levelled  at  a  tradesman  of  whom 
he  was,  perhaps,  a  little  jealous;  "true;  Stultz  aims  at  mak- 
ing £•£////£/#<?#,  not  coats  j  there  is  a  degree  of  aristocratic  pre- 
tension in  his  stitches  which  is  vulgar  to  an  appalling  degree. 
You  can  tell  a  Stultz  coat  anywhere,  which  is  quite  enough  to 
damn  it :  the  moment  a  man's  known  by  an  invariable  cut,  and 
that  not  original,  it  ought  to  be  all  over  with  him.  Give  me 
the  man  who  makes  the  tailor,  not  the  tailor  who  makes  the 
man." 

"  Right,  by  Jove  !  "  cried  Sir  Willoughby,  who  was  as  badly 

dressed  as  one  of  Sir  E 's  dinners.  "Right;  just  my 

opinion.  I  have  always  told  my  Schneiders  to  make  my  clothes 
neither  in  the  fashion  nor  out  of  it ;  to  copy  no  other  man's 
coat,  and  to  cut  their  cloth  according  to  my  natural  body,  not 
according  to  an  isosceles  triangle.  Look  at  this  coat,  for  in- 
stance," and  Sir  Willoughby  Townshend  made  a  dead  halt, 
that  we  might  admire  his  garment  the  more  accurately. 

"Coat  !  "  said  Russelton,  with  an  appearance  of  the  most 
naive  surprise,  and  taking  hold  of  the  collar,  suspiciously,  by 
the  finger  and  thumb;  "coat,  Sir  Willoughby!  Do  you  call 
this  thin*  a  coat  ?  " 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

"  J'ai  toujours  cru  que  le  bon  n'etoit  que  le  beau  mis  en  action." — ROUSSEAU. 

SHORTLY  after  Russelton's  answer  to  Sir  Willoughby's  eulo- 
gistic observations  on  his  own  attire,  I  left  those  two  worthies 
till  I  was  to  join  them  at  dinner ;  it  wanted  three  hours  yet  to 
that  time,  and  I  repaired  to  my  quarters  to  bathe  and  write 
letters.  I  scribbled  one  to  Madame  d'Anville,  full  of  antithe- 
ses and  maxims,  sure  to  charm  her  ;  another  to  my  mother,  to 
prepare  her  for  my  arrival ;  and  a  third  to  Lord  Vincent,  giv- 
ing him  certain  commissions  at  Paris,  which  I  had  forgotten 
personally  to  execute. 

My  pen  is  not  that  of  a  ready  writer ;  and  what  with  yawn- 
ing, and  stretching,  and  putting  pen  to  paper,  it  was  time  to 
bathe  and  dress  before  my  letters  were  completed.  I  set  off  to 
Russelton's  abode  in  high  spirits,  and  fully  resolved  to  make 
the  most  of  a  character  so  original, 


124  PELHAM  J 

It  was  a  very  small  room  in  which  I  found  him  ;  he  was 
stretched  in  an  easy-chair  before  the  fireplace,  gazing  com- 
placently at  his  feet,  and  apparently  occupied  in  anything  but 
listening  to  Sir  Willoughby  Townshend,  who  was  talking  with 
great  vehemence  about  politics  and  the  corn-laws.  Notwith- 
standing the  heat  of  the  weather,  there  was  a  small  fire  on  fhe 
hearth,  which,  aided  by  the  earnestness  of  his  efforts  to  con- 
vince his  host,  put  poor  Sir  Willoughby  into  a  most  intense 
perspiration.  Russelton,  however,  seemed  enviably  cool,  and 
hung  over  the  burning  wood  like  a  cucumber  on  a  hotbed.  Sir 
Willoughby  came  to  a  full  stop  by  the  window,  and  (gasping 
for  breath)  attempted  to  throw  it  open. 

"  What  are  you  doing  ?  For  Heaven's  sake,  what  are  you 
doing  ? "  cried  Russelton,  starting  up  ;  "  do  you  mean  to 
kill  me  ?  " 

"  Kill  you  !  "  said  Sir  Willoughby,  quite  aghast. 

"  Yes  ;  kill  me  !  Is  it  not  quite  cold  enough  already  in  this 
d — d  seafaring  place,  without  making  my  only  retreat,  humble 
as  it  is,  a  theatre  for  thorough  draughts  ?  Have  I  not  had  the 
rheumatism  in  my  left  shoulder,  and  the  ague  in  my  little 
finger,  these  last  six  months  ?  And  must  you  now  terminate 
my  miserable  existence  at  one  blow  by  opening  that  abomin- 
able lattice  ?  Do  you  think,  because  your  great  frame,  fresh 
from  the  Yorkshire  wolds,  and  compacted  of  such  materials 
that  one  would  think,  in  eating  your  beeves,  you  had  digested 
their  hide  into  skin — do  you  think,  because  your  limbs  might 
be  cut  up  into  planks. for  a  seventy-eight,  and  warranted  water- 
proof without  pitch,  because  of  the  density  of  their  pores — do 
you  think,  because  you  are  as  impervious  as  an  araphorostic 
shoe,  that  I,  John  Russelton,  am  equally  impenetrable,  and 
that  you  are  to  let  easterly  winds  play  about  my  room  like 
children,  begetting  rheums  and  asthmas  and  all  manner  of 
catarrhs?  I  do  beg,  Sir  Willoughby  Townshend,  that  you  will 
suffer  me  to  die  a  more  natural  and  civilized  death  ";  and  so 
saying,  Russelton  sank  down  into  his  chair,  apparently  in  the 
last  stage  of  exhaustion. 

Sir  Willoughby,  who  remembered  the  humorist  in  all  his 
departed  glory,  and  still  venerated  him  as  a  temple  where  the 
deity  yet  breathed,  though  the  altar  was  overthrown,  made  to 
this  extraordinary  remonstrance  no  other  reply  than  a  long 
whiff,  and  a  "Well,  Russelton,  damme,  but  you're  a  queer 
fellow." 

Russelton  now  turned  to  me,  and  invited  me,  with  a  tone  of 
the  most  lady-like  languor,  to  sit  down  near  the  fire.  As  1  am 


OR,   ADVENTURES    OF    A    GENTLEMAN.  125 

naturally  of  a  chilly  disposition,  and  fond,  too,  of  beating  peo- 
ple in  their  own  line,  I  drew  a  chair  close  to  the  hearth,  declared 
the  weather  was  very  cold,  and  requested  permission  to  ring 
the  bell  for  some  more  wood.  Russelton  stared  for  a  moment, 
and  then,  with  a  politeness  he  had  not  deigned  to  exert  before, 
approached  his  chair  to  mine,  and  began  a  conversation,  which, 
in  spite  of  his  bad  witticisms  and  peculiarity  of  manner,  I  found 
singularly  entertaining. 

Dinner  was  announced,  and  we  adjourned  to  another  room. 
Poor  Sir  Willoughby,  with  his  waistcoat  unbuttoned,  and 
breathing  like  a  pug  in  a  phthisis,  groaned  bitterly,  when  he 
discovered  that  this  apartment  was  smaller  and  hotter  than 
the  one  before.  Russelton  immediately  helped  him  to  some 
scalding  soup,  and  said,  as  he  told  the  servant  to  hand  Sir 
Willoughby  the  cayenne,  "  You  will  find  this,  my  dear  Town- 
shend,  a  very  sensible potagc  for  this  severe  season." 

Dinner  went  off  tamely  enough,  with  the  exception  of  "  our 
fat  friend's  "  agony,  which  Russelton  enjoyed  most  luxuriously. 
The  threatened  mutton-chops  did  not  make  their  appearance, 
and  the  dinner,  though  rather  too  small,  was  excellently  cooked, 
and  better  arranged.  With  the  dessert  the  poor  baronet  rose, 
and  pleading  sudden  indisposition,  tottered  out  of  the  door. 

When  he  was  gone  Russelton  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair 
and  laughed  for  several  minutes  with  a  low,  chuckling  sound, 
till  the  tears  ran  down  his  cheek. 

After  a  few  jests  at  Sir  Willoughby  our  conversation  turned 
upon  other  individuals.  I  soon  saw  that  Russelton  was  a 
soured  and  disappointed  man  ;  his  remarks  on  people  were  all 
sarcasms — his  mind  was  overflowed  with  a  suffusion  of  ill- 
nature — he  bit  as  well  as  growled.  No  man  of  the  world  ever, 
I  am  convinced,  becomes  a  real  philosopher  in  retirement. 
People  who  have  been  employed  for  years  upon  trifles  have 
not  the  greatness  of  mind  which  could  alone  make  them  indif- 
ferent to  what  they  have  coveted  all  their  lives  as  most  enviable 
and  important. 

"  Have  you  read  's  memoirs  ? "  said  Mr.  Russelton. 

"  No  !  Well,  I  imagined  every  one  had  at  least  dipped  into 
them.  I  have  often  had  serious  thoughts  of  dignifying  my 
own  retirement  by  the  literary  employment  of  detailing  my 
adventures  in  the  world.  I  think  I  could  throw  a  new  light 
upon  things  and  persons,  which  my  contemporaries  will  shrink 
back  like  owls  at  perceiving." 

"Your  life,"  said  I,  "must  indeed  furnish  matter  of  equal 
instruction  and  amusement," 


126  PELHAM; 

"  Ay,"  answered  Russelton  ;  "  amusement  to  the  fools,  but 
instruction  to  the  knaves.  I  am,  indeed,  a  lamentable  example 
of  the  fall  of  ambition.  I  brought  starch  into  all  the  neck- 
cloths in  England,  and  I  end  by  tying  my  own  at  a  three-inch 
looking-glass  at  Calais.  You  are  a  young  man,  Mr.  Pelham, 
about  to  commence  life,  probably  with  the  same  views  as 
(though  greater  advantages  than)  myself;  perhaps,  in  indulg- 
ing my  egotism,  I  shall  not  weary  without  recompensing  you. 

"  I  came  into  the  world  with  an  inordinate  love  of  glory,  and 
a  great  admiration  of  the  original ;  these  propensities  might 
have  made  me  a  Shakspeare — they  did  more,  they  made  me  a 
Russelton  !  When  I  was  six  years  old  I  cut  my  jacket  into  a 
coat,  and  turned  my  aunt's  best  petticoat  into  a  waistcoat.  I 
disdained  at  eight  the  language  of  the  vulgar,  and  when  my 
father  asked  me  to  fetch  his  slippers,  I  replied  that  my  soul 
swelled  beyond  the  limits  of  a  lackey's.  At  nine,  I  was  self- 
inoculated  with  propriety  of  ideas.  I  rejected  malt  with  the 
air  of  His  Majesty,  and  formed  a  violent  affection  for  maras- 
chino ;  though  starving  at  school,  I  never  took  twice  of  pud- 
ding, and  paid  sixpence  a  week  out  of  my  shilling  to  have  my 
shoes  blacked.  As  I  grew  up  my  notions  expanded.  I  gave 
myself,  without  restraint,  to  the  ambition  that  burnt  within  me  ; 
I  cut  my  old  friends,  who  were  rather  envious  than  emulous  of 
my  genius,  and  I  employed  three  tradesmen  to  make  my 
gloves — one  for  the  hand,  a  second  for  the  fingers,  and  a  third 
for  the  thumb  !  These  two  qualities  made  me  courted  and 
admired  by  a  new  race — for  the  great  secrets  of  being  courted 
are  to  shun  others,  and  seem  delighted  with  yourself.  The 
latter  is  obvious  enough  ;  who  the  deuce  should  be  pleased 
with  you,  if  you  are  not  pleased  with  yourself  ? 

"  Before  I  left  college,  I  fell  in  love.  Other  fellows,  at  my 
age,  in  such  a  predicament,  would  have  whined,  shaved  only 
twice  a  week,  and  written  verses.  I  did  none  of  the  three  ; 
the  last  indeed  I  tried,  but,  to  my  infinite  surprise,  I  found  my 
genius  was  not  universal.  I  began  with 

'  Sweet  nymph,  for  whom  I  wake  my  muse.' 

"  For  this,  after  considerable  hammering,  I  could  only  think 
of  the  rhyme  '  shoes' ;  so  I  began  again, — 

'  Thy  praise  demands  much  softer  lutes.' 

And  the  fellow  of  this  verse  terminated  like  myself  in  '  boots.* 
Other  efforts  were  equally  successful — '  bloom  '  suggested  to 
my  imagination  no  rhyme  but  '  perfume  ! '  '  Despair '  only  re- 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          127 

minded  me  of  my  'hair';  and  'hope'  was  met,  at  the  second 
verse,  by  the  inharmonious  antithesis  of  'soap.'  Finding,  there- 
fore, that  my  forte  was  not  in  the  Pierian  line,  I  redoubled  my 
attention  to  my  dress  ;  J  coated  and  cravatied  with  all  the  atten- 
tion the  very  inspiration  of  my  rhymes  seemed  to  advise  ;  in 
short,  I  thought  the  best  pledge  I  could  give  my  Dulcinea  of 
my  passion  for  her  person  would  be  to  show  her  what  affec- 
tionate veneration  I  could  pay  to  my  own. 

"  My  mistress  could  not  withhold  from  me  her  admiration, 
but  she  denied  me  her  love.  She  confessed  Mr.  Russelton  was 
the  best-dressed  man  at  the  university,  and  had  the  whitest 
hands  ;  and  two  days  after  this  avowal  she  ran  away  with  a 
great  rosy-cheeked  extract  from  Leicestershire. 

"  I  did  not  blame  her — I  pitied  her  too  much — but  I  made  a 
vow  never  to  be  in  love  again.  In  spite  of  all  advantages  I 
kept  my  oath,  and  avenged  myself  on  the  species  for  the  insult 
of  the  individual. 

"  Before  I  commenced  a  part  which  was  to  continue  through 
life,  I  considered  deeply  on  the  humors  of  the  spectators.  I 
saw  that  the  character  of  the  more  fashionable  of  the  English  was 
servile  to  rank,  and  yielding  to  pretension  ;  they  admire  you  for 
your  acquaintance,  and  cringe  to  you  for  your  conceit.  The 
first  thing,  therefore,  was  to  know  great  people  ;  the  second,  to 
control  them.  I  dressed  well,  and  had  good  horses — that  was 
sufficient  to  make  me  sought  by  the  young  of  my  own  sex.  I 
talked  scandal,  and  was  never  abashed — that  was  more  than 
enough  to  make  me  admired  among  the  matrons  of  the  other. 
It  is  single  men,  and  married  women,  to  whom  are  given  the  St. 
Peter's  keys  of  Society.  I  was  soon  admitted  into  its  heaven — 
I  was  more — I  was  one  of  its  saints.  I  became  imitated  as  well 
as  initiated.  I  was  the  rage,  the  lion.  Why?  Was  I  better — was  I 
richer — was  I  handsomer — was  I  cleverer,than  my  kind  ?  No,no 
(and  here  Russelton  ground  his  teeth  with  a  strong  and  wrathful 
expression. of  scorn);  and  had  I  been  all — had  I  been  a  very 
concentration  and  monopoly  of  all  human  perfections — they 
would  not  have  valued  me  at  half  the  price  they  did  set  on  me. 
It  was — I  will  tell  you  the  simple  secret,  Mr.  Pelham — it  was 
because  I  trampled  on  them,  that,  like  crushed  herbs,  they  sent 
up  a  grateful  incense  in  return. 

"Oh,  it  was  balm  to  my  bitter  and  loathing  temper,  to  see 
those  who  would  have  spurned  me  from  them,  if  they  dared, 
writhe  beneath  my  lash,  as  I  withheld  or  inflicted  it  at  will !  I 
was  the  magician  who  held  the  great  spirits  that  longed  to  tear 
me  to  pieces  by  one  simple  spell  which  a  superior  hardi- 


128  PELHAM  ; 

hood  had  won  me  ;  and,  by  Heaven  !  I  did  not  spare  to 
exert  it. 

"  Well,  well,  this  is  but  an  idle  recollection  now  ;  all  human 
power,  says  the  proverb  of  every  language,  is  but  of  short  du- 
ration. Alexander  did  not  conquer  kingdoms  forever  ;  and 
Russelton's  good  fortune  deserted  him  at  last.  Napoleon  died 
in  exile,  and  so  shall  I  ;  but  we  have  both  had  our  day,  and 
mine  was  the  brightest  of  the  two,  for  it  had  no  change  till  the 
evening.  I  am  more  happy  than  people  would  think  for — Je 
ne  suis  pas  souvent  oil  man  corps  est — I  live  in  a  world  of  recol- 
lections ;  I  trample  again  upon  coronets  and  ermine,  the  glories 
of  the  small  great  !  I  give  once  more  laws  which  no  libertine 
is  so  hardy  as  not  to  feel  exalted  in  adopting  ;  I  hold  my  court 
and  issue  my  fiats ;  I  am  like  the  madman,  and  out  of  the  very 
straws  of  my  cell  I  make  my  subjects  and  my  realm  ;  and  when 
I  wake  from  these  bright  visions,  and  see  myself  an  old,  de- 
serted man,  forgotten,  and  decaying  inch  by  inch  in  a  foreign 
village,  I  can  at  least  summon  sufficient  of  my  ancient  regality 
of  spirit  not  to  sink  beneath  the  reverse.  If  I  am  inclined  to 
be  melancholy,  why  I  extinguish  my  fire,  and  imagine  I  have 
demolished  a  duchess  ;  I  steal  up  to  my  solitary  chamber, 
to  renew  again,  in  my  sleep,  the  phantoms  of  my  youth  ; 
to  carouse  with  princes  ;  to  legislate  for  nobles ;  and  to  wake 
in  the  morning  (here  Russelton's  countenance  and  manner 
suddenly  changed  to  an  affectation  of  methodistical  grav- 
ity), and  thank  Heaven  that  I  have  still  a  coat  to  my  stom- 
ach, as  well  as  to  my  back,  and  that  I  am  safely  delivered  of 
such  villanous  company  ;  'to  forswear  sack  and  live  cleanly,' 
during  the  rest  of  my  sublunary  existence." 

After  this  long  detail  of  Mr.  Russelton's  the  conversation 
was  but  dull  and  broken.  I  could  not  avoid  indulging  a 
reverie  upon  what  I  had  heard,  and  my  host  was  evidently 
still  revolving  the  recollections  his  narration  had  conjured  up  ; 
we  sat  opposite  each  other  for  several  minutes  as  abstracted 
and  distracted  as  if  we  had  been  a  couple  two  months  married  ; 
till  at  last  I  rose,  and  tendered  my  adieus.  Russelton  received 
them  with  his  usual  coldness,  but  more  than  his  usual  civility, 
for  he  followed  me  to  the  door. 

Just  as  they  were  about  to  shut  it,  he  called  me  back.  "  Mr. 
Pelham,"  said  he;  "Mr.  Pelham,  when  you  come  back  this 
way,  do  look  in  upon  me,  and — and  as  you  will  be  going  a 
good  deal  into  society,  just  find  out  what  people  say  of  my  man- 
ner of  life  !  "  * 

*  It  will  be  perceived  by  those  readers  who  are  kind  and  patient  enough  to  reach  the 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         129 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

"  An  old  worshipful  gentleman,  that  had  a  great  estate, 
And  kept  a  brave  old  house  at  a  hospitable  rate." — Old  Song. 

I  THINK  I  may,  without  much  loss  to  the  reader,  pass  in 
silence  over  my  voyage,  the  next  day,  to  Dover.  (Horrible 
reminiscence  !)  I  may  also  spare  him  an  exact  detail  of  all 
the  inns  and  impositions  between  that  seaport  and  London  ; 
nor  will  it  be  absolutely  necessary  to  the  plot  of  this  history 
to  linger  over  every  milestone  between  the  metropolis  and 
Glenmorris  Castle,  where  my  uncle  and  my  mother  were  im- 
patiently awaiting  the  arrival  of  the  candidate  to  be. 

It  was  a  fine  bright  evening  when  my  carriage  entered  the 
park.  I  had  not  seen  the  place  for  years  ;  and  I  felt  my 
heart  swell  with  something  like  family  pride  as  I  gazed  on  the 
magnificent  extent  of  hill  and  plain  that  opened  upon  me,  as 
I  passed  the  ancient  and  ivy-covered  lodge.  Large  groups 
of  trees,  scattered  on  either  side,  seemed,  in  their  own  antiquity, 
the  witness  of  that  of  the  family  which  had  given  them  exist- 
ence. The  sun  set  on  the  waters  which  lay  gathered  in  a  lake 
at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  breaking  the  waves  into  unnumbered 
sapphires,  and  tingeing  the  dark  firs  that  overspread  the  mar- 
gin, with  a  rich  and  golden  light,  that  put  me  excessively  in 
mind  of  the  Duke  of 's  livery  ! 

When  I  descended  at  the  gate,  the  servants,  who  stood  ar- 
ranged in  an  order  so  long  that  it  almost  startled  me,  received 
me  with  a  visible  gladness  and  animation,  which  showed  me, 
at  one  glance,  the  old-fashioned  tastes  of  their  master.  Who, 
in  these  days,  ever  inspires  his  servants  with  a  single  sentiment 
of  regard  or  interest  for  himself  or  his  whole  race  ?  That 
tribe  one  never,  indeed,  considers  as  possessing  a  life  separate 
from  their  services  to  us  :  beyond  that  purpose  of  existence, 
we  know  not  even  if  they  exist.  As  Providence  made  the  stars 
for  the  benefit  of  earth,  so  it  made  servants  for  the  use  of  gen- 
tlemen ;  and,  as  neither  stars  nor  servants  appear  except  when 
we  want  them,  so  I  suppose  they  are  in  a  sort  of  suspense  from 
being,  except  at  those  important  and  happy  moments. 

To  return — for  if  I  have  any  fault,  it  is  too  great  a  love  for 
abstruse  speculation  and  reflection — I  was  formally  ushered 

conclusion  of  this  work,  that  Russelton  is  specified  as  one  of  my  few  dramatis  personae  of 
which  only  theyfrj/  outline  is  taken  from  real  life,  and  from  a  very  noted  personage  ;  all 
the  rest — all,  indeed,  which  forms  and  marks  th«  character  thus  briefly  delineated — is 
drawn  solely  from  imagination, 


130  PELHAM  J 

through  a  great  hall,  hung  round  with  huge  antlers  and  rusty 
armor,  through  a  lesser  one,  supported  by  large  stone  columns, 
and  without  any  other  adornment  than  the  arms  of  the  family  ; 
then  through  an  ante-room,  covered  with  tapestry,  represent- 
ing the  gallantries  of  King  Solomon  to  the  Queen  of  Sheba  ; 
and  lastly,  into  the  apartment  honored  by  the  august  presence 
of  Lord  Glenmorris.  That  personage  was  dividing  the  sofa 
with  three  spaniels  and  a  setter  ;  he  rose  hastily  when  I  was 
announced,  and  then  checking  the  first  impulse  which  hurrie'd 
him,  perhaps,  into  an  unseemly  warmth  of  salutation,  held  out 
his  hand  with  a  stately  air  of  kindly  protection,  and  while  he 
pressed  mine,  surveyed  me  from  head  to  foot,  to  see  how  far 
my  appearance  justified  his  condescension. 

Having,  at  last,  satisfied  himself,  he  proceeded  to  inquire 
after  the  state  of  my  appetite.  He  smiled  benignantly  when  I 
confessed  that  I  was  excessively  well  prepared  to  testify  its  ca- 
pacities (the  first  idea  of  all  kind-hearted,  old-fashioned  people, 
is  to  stuff  you),  and,  silently  motioning  to  the  gray-headed 
servant  who  stood  in  attendance,  till,  receiving  the  expected 
sign,  he  withdrew,  Lord  Glenmorris  informed  me  that  dinner 
was  over  for  everybody  but  myself  ;  that  for  me  it  would  be 
prepared  in  an  instant  ;  that  Mr.  Toolington  had  expired  four 
days  since  ;  that  my  mother  was,  at  that  moment,  canvassing 
for  me,  and  that  my  own  electioneering  qualities  were  to  open 
their  exhibition  with  the  following  day. 

After  this  communication  there  was  a  short  pause.  "What 
a  beautiful  place  this  is  !  "  said  I,  with  great  enthusiasm.  Lord 
Glenmorris  was  pleased  with  the  compliment,  simple  as  it  was. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "  it  is,  and  I  have  made  it  still  more  so  than 
you  have  yet  been  able  to  perceive." 

"You  have  been  planting,  probably,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
park  ?  " 

"No,"  said  my  uncle,  smiling  ;  "  Nature  had  done  everything 
for  this  spot  when  I  came  to  it  but  one;  and  the  addition  of 
that  one  ornament  is  the  only  real  triumph  which  art  ever  can 
achieve." 

"  What  is  it?"  asked  I ;  "oh,  I  know — water." 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  answered  Lord  Glenmorris  ;  "  it  is  the 
ornament  of — happy  faces." 

I  looked  up  to  my  uncle's  countenance  in  sudden  surprise. 
I  cannot  explain  how  I  was  struck  with  the  expression  which 
it  wore  :  so  calmly  bright  and  open  !  It  was  as  if  the  very 
daylight  had  settled  there. 

"  You  don't  understand  this  at  present,  Henry,"    said   he, 


Oft,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          13! 

after  a  moment's  silence  ;  "  but  you  will  find  it,  of  all  rules  for 
the  improvement  of  property,  the  easiest  to  learn.  Enough  of 
this  now.  Were  you  not  in  despair  at  leaving  Paris  ? " 

"  I  should  have  been  some  months  ago  ;  but  when  I  received 
my  mother's  summons,  I  found  the  temptations  of  the  Conti- 
nent very  light  in  comparison  with  those  held  out  to  me  here." 

"  What,  have  you  already  arrived  at  that  great  epoch  when 
vanity  casts  off  its  first  skin,  and  ambition  succeeds  to  pleas- 
ure ?  Why — but  thank  Heaven  that  you  have  lost  my  moral — 
your  dinner  is  announced." 

Most  devoutly  did  I  thank  Heaven,  and  most  earnestly  did  I 
betake  myself  to  do  honor  to  my  uncle's  hospitality. 

I  had  just  finished  my  repast  when  my  mother  entered.  She 
was,  as  you  might  well  expect  from  her  maternal  affection, 
quite  overpowered  with  joy,  first,  at  finding  my  hair  grown  so 
much  darker,  and,  secondly,  at  my  looking  so  well.  We  spent 
the  whole  evening  in  discussing  the  great  business  for  which 
I  had  been  summoned.  Lord  Glenmorris  promised  me  money, 
;and  my  mother  advice  ;  and  I,  in  my  turn,  enchanted  them,  by 
promising  to  make  the  best  use  of  both. 


CHAPTER   XXXV. 

"  Cor.     Your  good  voice,  sir — what  say  you  ? 

3d  Cit.     You  shall  have  it,  worthy  sir." — Coriolanus. 

THE  borough  of  Buyemall  had  long  been  in  undisputed  pos- 
session of  the  lords  of  Glenmorris,  till  a  rich  banker,  of  the 
name  of  Lufton,  had  bought  a  large  estate  in  the  immediate 
neighborhood  of  Glenmorris  Castle.  This  event,  which  was 
the  precursor  of  a  mighty  revolution  in  the  borough  of  Buyem- 
iill.  took  place  in  the  first  year  of  my  uncle's  accession  to  his 
property.  A  few  months  afterwards  a  vacancy  in  the  borough 
•occurring,  my  uncle  procured  the  nomination  of  one  of  his 
own  political  party.  To  the  great  astonishment  of  Lord  Glen- 
morris, and  the  great  gratification  of  the  burghers  of  Buyem- 
all, Mr.  Lufton  offered  himself  in  opposition  to  the  Glenmor- 
ris candidate.  In  this  age  of  enlightenment,  innovation  has  no 
respect  for  the  most  sacred  institutions  of  antiquity.  The 
burghers,  for  the  only  time  since  their  creation  as  a  body,  were 
cast  first  into  doubt,  and  secondly  into  rebellion.  The  Lufton 
faction,  horresco  referens,  were  triumphant,  and  the  rival  candi- 


132  PELHAM  J 

date  was  returned.  From  that  hour  the  Borough  of  Buyemall 
was  open  to  all  the  world. 

My  uncle,  who  was  a  good  easy  man,  and  had  some  strange 
notions  of  free  representation  and  liberty  of  election,  professed 
to  care  very  little  for  this  event.  He  contented  himself,  hence- 
forward, with  exerting  his  interest  for  one  of  the  members,  and 
left  the  other  seat  entirely  at  the  disposal  of  the  line  of  Luf- 
ton,  which,  from  the  time  of  the  first  competition,  continued 
peaceably  to  monopolize  it. 

During  the  last  two  years  my  uncle's  candidate,  the  late  Mr. 
Toolington,  had  been  gradually  dying  of  a  dropsy,  and  the 
Luftons  had  been  so  particularly  attentive  to  the  honest 
burghers,  that  it  was  shrewdly  suspected  a  bold  push  was  to  be 
made  for  the  other  seat.  During  the  last  month  these  doubts 
were  changed  into  certainty.  Mr.  Augustus  Leopold  Lufton, 
eldest  son  to  Benjamin  Lufton,  Esq.,  had  publicly  declared  his 
intention  of  starting  at  the  decease  of  Mr.  Toolington  ;  against 
this  personage  behold  myself  armed  and  arrayed. 

Such  is,  in  brief,  the  history  of  the  borough,  up  to  the  time 
in  which  I  was  to  take  a  prominent  share  in  its  interests  and 
events. 

On  the  second  day  after  my  arrival  at  the  castle  the  follow- 
ing advertisement  appeared  at  Buyemall : 

"  To  the  Independent  Electors  of  the  Borough  of  Buyemall. 
GENTLEMEN : 

In  presenting  myself  to  your  notice,  I  advance  a  claim  not 
altogether  new  and  unfounded.  My  family  have  for  centuries 
been  residing  amongst  you,  and  exercising  that  interest  which 
reciprocal  confidence,  and  good  offices,  may  fairly  create. 
Should  it  be  my  good  fortune  to  be  chosen  your  representative, 
you  may  rely  upon  my  utmost  endeavors  to  deserve  that  honor. 
One  word  upon  the  principles  I  espouse  :  they  are  those  which 
have  found  their  advocates  among  the  wisest  and  the  best : 
they  are  those  which,  hostile  alike  to  the  encroachments  of  the 
crown  and  the  licentiousness  of  the  people,  would  support  the 
real  interests  of  both.  Upon  these  grounds,  gentlemen,  1  have 
the  honor  to  solicit  your  votes  ;  and  it  is  with  the  sincerest 
respect  for  your  ancient  and  honorable  body,  that  I  subscribe 
myself  your  very  obedient  servant,  HENRY  PELHAM. 

"Glenmorris  Castle,"  etc.,  etc. 

Such  was  the  first  public  signification  of  my  intentions  ;  it 
was  drawn  up  by  Mr.  Sharpen,  our  lawyer,  and  considered  by 
our  friends  as  a  masterpiece :  for,  as  my  mother  sagely  ob- 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         133 

served,  it  did  not  commit  me  in  a  single  instance — espoused  no 
principle,  and  yet  professed  principles  which  all  parties  would 
allow  were  the  best. 

At  the  first  house  where  I  called,  the  proprietor  was  a  clergy- 
man of  good  family,  who  had  married  a  lady  from  Baker 
Street :  of  course  the  Reverend  Combermere  St.  Quintin  and 
his  wife  valued  themselves  upon  being  "genteel."  I  arrived 
at  an  unlucky  moment ;  on  entering  the  hall  a  dirty  footboy 
was  carrying  a  yellow-ware  dish  of  potatoes  into  the  back 
room.  Another  Ganymede  (a  sort  of  footboy-major),  who 
opened  the  door,  and  who  was  still  settling  himself  into  his 
coat,  which  he  had  slipped  on  at  my  tintinnabulary  summons, 
ushered  me  with  a  mouthful  of  bread  and  cheese  into  this  said 
back  room.  I  gave  up  everything  as  lost  when  I  entered  and 
saw  the  lady  helping  her  youngest  child  to  some  ineffable 
trash,  which  I  have  since  heard  is  called  "blackberry  pud- 
ding." Another  of  the  tribe  was  bawling  out,  with  a  loud, 
hungry  tone  :  "A  tatoe,  pa  !"  The  father  himself  was  carving 
for  the  little  group,  with  a  napkin  stuffed  into  the  top  button- 
hole of  his  waistcoat,  and  the  mother,  with  a  long  bib,  plenti- 
fully bespattered  with  congealing  gravy,  and  the  nectarian 
liquor  of  the  "blackberry  pudding,"  was  sitting,  with  a  sort  of 
presiding  complacency,  on  a  high  stool,  like  Juno  on  Olympus, 
enjoying,  rather  than  stilling,  the  confused  hubbub  of  the  little 
domestic  deities,  who  ate,  clattered,  spattered,  and  squabbled 
around  her. 

Amidst  all  this  din  and  confusion,  the  candidate  for  the 
borough  of  Buyemall  was  ushered  into  the  household  privacy 
of  the  genteel  Mr.  and  Mrs.  St.  Quintin.  Up  started  the  lady 
at  the  sound  of  my  name.  The  Rev.  Combermere  St.  Quintin 
seemed  frozen  into  stone.  The  plate  between  the  youngest 
child  and  the  blackberry  pudding  stood  as  still  as  the  sun  in 
Ajalon.  The  morsel  between  the  mouth  of  the  elder  boy  and 
his  fork  had  a  respite  from  mastication.  The  Seven  Sleepers 
could  not  have  been  spellbound  more  suddenly  and  completely. 

"Ah,"  cried  I,  advancing  eagerly,  with  an  air  of  serious  and 
yet  abrupt  gladness  ;  "  how  lucky  that  I  should  find  you  all  at 
luncheon.  I  was  up  and  had  finished  breakfast  so  early  this 
morning  that  I  am  half  famished.  Only  think  how  fortunate, 
Hardy  (turning  round  to  one  of  the  members  of  my  committee 
who  accompanied  me)  ;  I  was  just  saying  what  would  I  not  give 
to  find  Mr.  St.  Quintin  at  luncheon.  Will  you  allow  me,  madam, 
to  make  one  of  your  party?" 

Mrs.  St.  Quintin  colored  and  faltered,  and  muttered  out  some- 


134  PELHAM  ; 

thing  which  I  was  fully  resolved  not  to  hear.  I  took  a  chair, 
looked  round  the  table,  not  too  attentively,  and  said  :  "  Cold 
veal ;  ah  !  ah  !  nothing  I  like  so  much.  May  I  trouble  you, 
Mr.  St.  Quintin?  Hollo,  my  little  man,  let's  see  if  you  can't 
give  me  a  potato.  There's  a  brave  fellow.  How  old  are  you, 
my  young  hero?  To  look  at  your  mother,  I  should  say  two  ;  to 
look  a.\.you,  six." 

"  He  is  four  next  May,"  said  his  mother,  coloring,  and  this 
time  not  painfully. 

"  Indeed?"  said  I,  surveying  him  earnestly  ;  and  then,  in  a 
graver  tone,  I  turned  to  the  Rev.  Combermere  with,  "  I  think 
you  have  a  branch  of  your  family  still  settled  in  France.  I  met 
a  St.  Quintin  (the  Due  de  Poictiers)  abroad." 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Couibermere  ;  "yes,  the  name  is  still  in 
Normandy,  but  I  was  not  aware  of  the  title." 

"  No  !  "  said  I,  with  surprise  ;  "and  yet  (with  another  look 
at  the  boy),  it  is  astonishing  how  long  family  likenesses  last. 
I  was  a  great  favorite  with  all  the  Due's  children.  Do  you 
know,  I  must  trouble  you  for  some  more  veal,  it  is  so  very  good, 
and  I  am  so  very  hungry." 

"How  long  have  you  been  abroad  ?"  said  Mrs.  St.  Quintin, 
who  had  slipped  off  her  bib,  and  smoothed  her  ringlets  ;  for 
which  purposes  I  had  been  most  adroitly  looking  in  an  opposite 
direction  the  last  three  minutes. 

"About  seven  or  eight  months.  The  fact  is,  that  the  Con- 
tinent only  does  for  us  English  people  to  see — not  to  inhabit  ; 
and  yet,  there  are  some  advantages  there,  Mr.  St.  Quintin  ! 
Among  others,  that  of  the  due  respect  ancient  birth  is  held  in. 
Here,  you  know,  'money  makes  the  man,'  as  the  vulgar  pro- 
verb has  it  !  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  St.  Quintin,  with  a  sigh,  "it  is  really  dread- 
ful to  see  those  upstarts  rising  around  us,  and  throwing  every- 
thing that  is  respectable  and  ancient  into  the  background. 
Dangerous  time  these,  Mr.  Pelham— dangerous  times  ;  nothing 
but  innovation  upon  the  most  sacred  institutions.  I  am  sure, 
Mr.  Pelham,  that  your  principles  must  be  decidedly  against 
these  new-fashioned  doctrines,  which  lead  to  nothing  but  anarchy 
and  confusion — absolutely  nothing." 

*'  I'm  delighted  to  find  you  so  much  of  my  opinion  !  "  said  I. 
"I  cannot  endure  anything  that  leads  to  anarchy  and  confusion." 

Here  Mr.  Combermere  glanced  at  his  wife,  who  rose,  called 
the  children,  and,  accompanied  by  them,  gracefully  withdrew. 

"Now then,"  said  Mr.  Combermere,  drawing  his  chair  nearer 
to  me  ;  "  now,  Mr.  Pelham,  we  can  discuss  these  matters, 


OR,  ADVENTURES    OF    A    GENTLEMAN.  135 

Women  are  no  politicians  "  ;  and  at  this  sage  aphon^m,  the 
Rev.  Combermere  laughed  a  low,  solemn  laugh,  which  could 
have  come  from  no  other  lips.  After  I  had  joined  in  this  grave 
merriment  for  a  second  or  two,  I  hemmed  thrice,  and  with  a 
countenance  suited  to  the  subject  and  the  host,  plunged  at 
once  in  medias  res. 

"Mr.  St.  Quintin,"  said  I,  "  you  are  already  aware,  I  think, 
of  my  intention  of  offering  myself  as  a  candidate  for  the  borough 
of  Buyemall.  I  .could  not  think  of  such  a  measure  without 
calling  upon  you,  the  very  first  person,  to  solicit  the  honor  of 
your  vote."  Mr.  Combermere  looked  pleased,  and  prepared  to 
reply.  "  You  are  the  very  first  person  I  called  upon,"  repeated  I. 

Mr.  Combermere  smiled.  "  Well,  Mr.  Pelham,"  said  he, 
"  our  families  have  long  been  on  the  most  intimate  footing." 

"Ever  since,"  cried  I,  "ever  since  Henry  the  Seventh's  time 
have  the  houses  of  St.  Quintin  and  Glenmorris  been  allied  ! 
Your  ancestors,  you  know,  were  settled  in  the  county  before  ours, 
and  my  mother  assures  me  that  she  has  read,  in  some  old  book 
or  another,  a  long  account  of  your  forefather's  kind  reception  of 
mine  at  the  castle  of  St.  Quintin.  I  do  trust,  sir,  that  we  have 
done  nothing  to  forfeit  a  support  so  long  afforded  us." 

Mr.  St.  Quintin  bowed  in  speechless  gratification  ;  at  length 
he  found  voice.  "But  your  principles,  Mr.  Pelham  ?" 

"Quite  yours,  my  dear  sir:  quite  against  anarchy  and  con- 
fusion." 

"  But  the  Catholic  question,  Mr.  Pelham  ?  " 

"Oh  !  the  Catholic  question,"  repeated  I,  "is  a  question  of 
great  importance  ;  it  won't  be  carried — no,  Mr.  St.  Quintin, 
no,  it  won't  be  carried  ;  how  did  you  think,  my  dear  sir,  that  I 
could,  in  so  great  a  question,  act  against  my  conscience  ?  " 

I  said  this  with  warmth,  and  Mr.  St.  Quintin  was  either  too 
convinced  or  too  timid  to  pursue  so  dangerous  a  topic  any 
further.  I  blessed  my  stars  when  he  paused,  and  not  giving  him 
time  to  think  of  another  piece  of  debatable  ground  continued  : 
"  Yes,  Mr.  St.  Quintin,  I  called  upon  you  the  very  first  person. 
Your  rank  in  the  county,  your  ancient  birth,  to  be  sure, 
demanded  it ;  but /only  considered  the  long,  long  time  the  St. 
Quintins  and  Pelhams  had  been  connected." 

"  Well,"  said  the  Rev.  Combermere,  "  well,  Mr.  Pelham,  you 
shall  have  my  support ;  and  I  wish,  from  my  very  heart,  all 
success  to  a  young  gentleman  of  such  excellent  principles." 


136  PELHAM  ; 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

"  More  voices  ! 

****** 

Sic.     How  now,  my  masters,  have  you  chosen  him  ? 
Cit.     He  has  our  voices,  sir  !  " — Coriolanus. 

FROM  Mr.  Combermere  St.  Quintin's  we  went  to  a  bluff, 
hearty,  radical  wine-merchant,  whom  I  had  very  little  proba- 
bility of  gaining  ;  but  my  success  with  the  clerical  Armado  had 
inspired  me,  and  I  did  not  suffer  myself  to  fear,  though  I  could 
scarcely  persuade  myself  to  hope.  How  exceedingly  impos- 
sible it  is,  in  governing  men,  to  lay  down  positive  rules,  even 
where  we  know  the  temper  of  the  individual  to  be  gained  ! 
"  You  must  be  very  stiff  and  formal  with  the  St.  Quintins," 
said  my  mother.  She  was  right  in  the  general  admonition,  and 
had  I  found  them  all  seated  in  the  best  drawing-room,  Mrs.  St. 
Quintin  in  her  best  attire,  and  the  children  on  their  best 
behavior,  I  should  have  been  as  stately  as  Don  Quixote  in  a 
brocade  dressing-gown  ;  but  finding  them  in  such  dishabille,  I 
could  not  affect  too  great  a  plainness  and  almost  coarseness  of 
bearing,  as  if  I  had  never  been  accustomed  to  anything  more 
refined  than  I  found  there  ;  nor  might  I,  by  any  appearance  of 
pride  in  myself,  put  them  in  mind  of  the  wound  their  own 
pride  had  received.  The  difficulty  was  to  blend  with  this 
familiarity  a  certain  respect,  just  the  same  as  a  French  ambas- 
sador might  have  testified  towards  the  august  person  of  George 
the  Third,  had  he  found  his  Majesty  at  dinner  at  one  o'clock, 
over  mutton  and  turnips. 

In  overcoming  this  difficulty,  I  congratulated  myself  with  as 
much  zeal  and  fervor  as  if  I  had  performed  the  most  impor- 
tant victory  ;  for,  whether  it  be  innocent  or  sanguinary,  in  war 
or  at  an  election,  there  is  no  triumph  so  gratifying  to  the 
viciousness  of  human  nature,  as  the  conquest  of  our  fellow- 
beings. 

But  I  must  return  to  my  wine-merchant,  Mr.  Briggs.  His 
house  was  at  the  entrance  of  the  town  of  Buyemall  ;  it  stood 
enclosed  in  a  small  garden,  flaming  with  crocuses  and  sun- 
flowers, and  exhibiting  an  arbor  to  the  right,  where,  in  the 
summer  evenings,  the  respectable  owner  might  be  seen,  with 
his  waistcoat  unbuttoned,  in  order  to  give  that  just  and  rational 
liberty  to  the  subordinate  parts  of  the  human  commonwealth 
which  the  increase  of  their  consequence,  after  the  hour  of 
dinner,  naturally  demands.  Nor,  in  those  moments  of  dignified 


OR,  ADVENTURES   OF    A    GENTLEMAN.  itf 

ease,  was  the  worthy  burgher  without  the  divine  inspirations 
of  complacent  contemplation  which  the  weed  of  Virginia 
bestoweth.  There,  as  he  smoked  and  puffed,  and  looked  out 
upon  the  bright  crocuses,  and  meditated  over  the  dim  recollec- 
tions of  the  hesternal  journal,  did  Mr.  Briggs  revolve  in  his 
mind  the  vast  importance  of  the  borough  of  Buyemall  to  the 
British  empire,  and  the  vast  importance  of  John  Briggs  to  the 
borough  of  Buyemall. 

When  I  knocked  at  the  door  a  prettyish  maid-servant  opened 
it  with  a  smile,  and  a  glance  which  the  vendor  of  wine  might 
probably  have  taught  her  himself  after  too  large  potations  of 
his  own  spirituous  manufactures.  I  was  ushered  into  a  small 
parlor — where  sat,  sipping  brandy  and  water,  a  short,  stout, 
monosyllabic  sort  of  figure,  corresponding  in  outward  shape  to 
the  name  of  Briggs — even  unto  a  very  nicety. 

"  Mr.  Pelham,"  said  this  gentleman,  who  was  dressed  in  a 
brown  coat,  white  waistcoat,  buff-colored  inexpressibles,  with 
long  strings,  and  gaiters  of  the  same  hue  and  substance  as  the 
breeches  ;  "  Mr.  Pelham,  pray  be  seated — excuse  my  rising, 
I'm  like  the  bishop  in  the  story,  Mr.  Pelham,  too  old  to  rise  "  ; 
and  Mr.  Briggs  grunted  out  a  short,  quick,  querulous,  "  he — 
he — he,"  to  which,  of  course,  I  replied  to  the  best  of  my 
cachinnatory  powers. 

No  sooner,  however,  did  I  begin  to  laugh,  than  Mr.  Briggs 
stopped  short,  eyed  me  with  a  sharp,  suspicious  glance,  shook 
his  head,  and  pushed  back  his  chair  at  least  four  feet  from  the 
spot  it  had  hitherto  occupied.  Ominous  signs,  thought  I — I 
must  sound  this  gentleman  a  little  further,  before  I  venture  to 
treat  him  as  the  rest  of  his  species. 

"  You  have  a  nice  situation  here,  Mr.  Briggs,"  said  I. 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Pelham,  and  a  nice  vote  too,  which  is  somewhat 
more  to  your  purpose,  I  believe." 

"  Why,"  said  I,  "  Mr.  Briggs,  to  be  frank  with  you,  I  do  call 
upon  you  for  the  purpose  of  requesting  your  vote ;  give  it  me, 
or  not,  just  as  you  please.  You  may  be  sure  I  shall  not  make 
use  of  the  vulgar  electioneering  arts  to  coax  gentlemen  out  of 
their  votes.  I  ask  you  for  yours  as  one  freeman  solicits 
another:  if  you  think  my  opponent  a  fitter  person  to  represent 
your  borough,  give  your  support  to  him  in  Heaven's  name :  if 
not,  and  you  place  confidence  in  me,  I  will,  at  least,  endeavor 
not  to  betray  it." 

"  Well  done,  Mr.  Pelham,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Briggs :  "  I  love 
candor — you  speak  just  after  my  own  heart ;  but  you  must  be 
aware  that  one  does  not  like  to  be  bamboozled  out  of  one's 


I3&  1>ELHAM  j 

right  of  election  by  a.  smooth-tongued  fellow,  who  sends  one  tOi 
the  devil  the  moment  the  election  is  over — or  still  worse,  to  be: 
frightened  out  of  it  by  some  stiff-necked  proud  coxcomb,  withs 
his  pedigree  in  his  hand,  and  his  acres  in  his  face,  thinking 
he  does  you  a  marvellous  honor  to  ask  you  at  all.  Sad  times 
these  for  this  free  country,  Mr.  Pelham,  when  a  parcel  of  con-- 
ceited  paupers,  like  Parson  Quinny  (as  I  call  that  reverend! 
fool,  Mr.  Combermere  St.  Quintin),  imagine  they  have  a  right: 
to  dictate  to  warm,  honest  men,  who  can  buy  their  whole' 
family  out  and  out.  I  tell  you  what,  Mr  Pelham,  we  shall 
never  do  anything  for  this  country  till  we  get  rid  of  those 
landed  aristocrats,  with  their  ancestry  and  humbug.  I  hope 
you're  of  my  mind,  Mr.  Pelham." 

"  Why,"  answered  I,  "  there  is  certainly  nothing  so  respect- 
able in  Great  Britain  as  our  commercial  interest.  A  man  who 
makes  himself  is  worth  a  thousand  men  made  by  their  fore- 
fathers." 

"Very  true,  Mr.  Pelham,"  said  the  wine-merchant,  advancing 
his  chair  to  me  ;  and  then,  laying  a  short,  thickset  finger  upon 
my  arm,  he  looked  up  in  my  face  with  an  investigating  air,  and 
said  :  "  Parliamentary  Reform — what  do  you  say  to  that  ? 
You're  not  an  advocate  for  ancient  abuses,  and  modern  cor- 
ruption, I  hope,  Mr.  Pelham?" 

"  By  no  means,"  cried  I,  with  an  honest  air  of  indignation  ; 
"I  have  a  conscience,  Mr.  Briggs,  I  have  a  conscience  as  a 
public  man,  no  less  than  as  a  private  one ! " 

"  Admirable  !  "  cried  my  host. 

"No,"  I  continued,  glowing  as  I  proceeded,  "  no,  Mr.  Briggs  ; 
I  disdain  to  talk  too  much  about  my  principles  before  they  are 
tried  ;  the  proper  time  to  proclaim  them  is  when  they  have 
effected  some  good  by  being  put  into  action.  I  won't  sup 
plicate  your  vote,  Mr.  Briggs,  as  my  opponent  may  do  ;  there 
must  be  a  mutual  confidence  between  my  supporters  and 
myself.  When  I  appear  before  you  a  second  time,  you  will 
have  a  right  to  see  how  far  I  have  wronged  that  trust  reposed 
in  me  as  your  representative.  Mr.  Briggs,  I  dare  say  it  may 
seem  rude  and  impolitic  to  address  you  in  this  manner  ;  but  1 
am  a  plain,  blunt  man,  and  I  disdain  the  vulgar  arts  of  elec- 
tioneering, Mr.  Briggs." 

"Give  us  your  fist,  sir,"  cried  the  wine-merchant,  in  a  trans- 
port ;  "give  us  your  fist  ;  I  promise  you  my  support,  and  1 
am  delighted  to  vote  for  a  young  gentleman  of  such  excellent 
principles." 

So  much,  dear  reader,  for  Mr.  Briggs,  who  became  frorr 


6R,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          139 

that  interview  my  staunchest  supporter.  I  will  not  linger 
longer  upon  this  part  of  my  career  :  the  above  conversations 
may  serve  as  a  sufficient  sample  of  my  electioneering  qualifi- 
cations ;  and  so  I  shall  merely  add,  that  after  the  due  quan- 
tum of  dining,  drinking,  spouting,  lying,  equivocating,  bribing, 
rioting,  head-breaking,  promise-breaking,  and — thank  the  god 
Mercury  who  presides  over  elections — chairing  of  successful 
candidateship,  I  found  myself  fairly  chosen  member  for  the 
borough  of  Buyemall !  * 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

"  Political  education  is  like  the  keystone  to  the  arch — the  strength  of  the 
whole  depends  upon  it. — Encycl.  Britt.  Sup.  Art.  Education. 

I  WAS  sitting  in  the  library  of  Glenmorris  Castle  about  a 
week  after  all  the  bustle  of  contest  and  the  6clat  of  victory  had 
begun  to  subside,  and  quietly  dallying  with  the  dry  toast, 
which  constituted  then,  and  does  to  this  day,  my  ordinary 
breakfast,  when  I  was  accosted  by  the  following  speech  from 
my  uncle : 

"  Henry,  your  success  has  opened  to  you  a  new  career  ;  I 
trust  you  intend  to  pursue  it  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  was  my  answer. 

"But  you  know,  my  dear  Henry,  that  though  you  have 
great  talents,  which,  I  confess,  I  was  surprised  in  the  course 
of  the  election  to  discover,  yet  they  want  that  careful  cultiva- 
tion, which,  in  order  to  shine  in  the  House  of  Commons,  they 
must  receive.  Entre  nous,  Henry,  a  little  reading  would  do 
you  no  harm." 

"  Very  well,"  said  I,  "  suppose  I  begin  with  Walter  Scott's 
novels  ;  I  am  told  they  are  extremely  entertaining." 

"True,"  answered  my  uncle,  "but  they  don't  contain  the 
most  accurate  notions  of  history,  or  the  soundest  principles  of 
political  philosophy  in  the  world.  What  did  you  think  of 
doing  to-day,  Henry  ?" 

"  Nothing  !  "  said  I  very  innocently. 

*  It  is  fortunate  that  Mr.  Pelham's  election  was  not  for  a  rotten  borough  ;  so  that  the 
satire  of  this  chapter  is  not  yet  obsolete  nor  unsalutary.  Parliamentary  Reform  has  not 
terminated  the  tricks  of  canvassing — and  Mr.  Pelham's  descriptions  are  as  applicable 
now  as  when  first  written.  All  persona!  canvassing  is  but  for  the  convenience  of  cunning — 
the  opportunity  for  manner  to  disguise  principle.  Public  meetings,  in  which  expositions 
of  opinion  must  be  clear  and  will  be  cross-examined,  are  the  only  legitimate  mode  of  can- 
vass. The  English  begin  to  discover  this  truth ;  may  these  scenes  serve  to  quicken  their 
apprehension. — THE  AUTHOR. 


140  PELHAM  J 

"  I  should  conceive  that  to  be  an  usual  answer  of  yours, 
Henry,  to  any  similar  question." 

"  I  think  it  is,"  replied  I,  with  great  naive t/. 

"  Well,  then,  let  us  have  the  breakfast  things  taken  away, 
and  do  something  this  morning." 

"  Willingly,"  said  I,  ringing  the  bell. 

The  table  was  cleared,  and  my  uncle  began  his  examination. 
Little,  poor  man,  had  he  thought,  from  my  usual  bearing,  and 
the  character  of  my  education,  that  in  general  literature  there 
were  few  subjects  on  which  I  was  not  to  the  full  as  well  read 
as  himself.  I  enjoyed  his  surprise,  when,  little  by  little,  he 
began  to  discover  the  extent  of  my  information  ;  but  I  was 
mortified  to  find  it  was  only  surprise,  not  delight. 

"You  have,"  said  he,  "  a  considerable  store  of  learning:  far 
more  than  I  could  possibly  have  imagined  you  possessed  ;  but 
it  is  knowledge,  not  learning,  in  which  I  wish  you  to  be  skilled. 
I  would  rather,  in  order  to  gift  you  with  the  former,  that  you 
were  more  destitute  of  the  latter.  The  object  of  education  is 
to  instil  principles  which  are  hereafter  to  guide  and  instruct  us  ; 
facts  are  only  desirable,  so  far  as  they  illustrate  those  prin- 
ciples ;  principles  ought  therefore  to  precede  facts  !  What 
then  can  we  think  of  a  system  which  icverses  this  evident  order, 
overloads  the  memory  with  facts,  and  those  of  the  most  doubt- 
ful description,  while  it  leaves  us  entirely  in  the  dark  with  re- 
gard to  the  principles  which  could  alone  render  this  hetero- 
geneous mass  of  any  advantage  or  avail  ?  Learning,  without 
knowledge,  is  but  a  bundle  of  prejudices  ;  a  lumber  of  inert 
matter  set  before  the  threshold  of  the  understanding  to  the 
exclusion  of  common-sense.  Pause  for  a  moment,  and  recall 
those  of  your  contemporaries  who  are  generally  considered 
well-informed  ;  tell  me  if  their  information  has  made  them  a 
whit  the  wiser;  if  not,  it  is  only  sanctified  ignorance.  Tell  me 
if  names  with  them  are  not  a  sanction  for  opinion  ;  quotations, 
the  representatives  of  axioms?  All  they  have  learned  only 
serves  as  an  excuse  for  all  they  are  ignorant  of.  In  one  month, 
I  will  engage  that  you  shall  have  a  juster  and  deeper  insight 
into  wisdom  than  they  have  been  all  their  lives  acquiring  ;  the 
great  error  of  education  is  to  fill  the  mind  first  with  antiquated 
authors,  and  then  to  try  the  principles  of  the  present  day  by 
the  authorities  and  maxims  of  the  past.  We  will  pursue,  for 
our  plan,  the  exact  reverse  of  the  ordinary  method.  We  will 
learn  the  doctrines  of  the  day,  as  the  first  and  most  necessary 
step,  and  we  will  then  glance  over  those  which  have  passed 
away,  as  researches  rather  curious  than  useful. 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         l4t 

"  You  see  this  very  small  pamphlet ;  it  is  a  paper  by  Mr. 
Mill,  upon  Government.  We  will  know  this  thoroughly,  and 
when  we  have  done  so,  we  may  rest  assured  that  we  have  a  far 
more  accurate  information  upon  the  head  and  front  of  all 
political  knowledge  than  two-thirds  of  the  young  men  whose 
cultivation  of  mind  you  have  usually  heard  panegyrized." 

So  saying,  my  uncle  opened  the  pamphlet.  He  pointed  out 
to  me  its  close  and  mathematical  reasoning,  in  which  no  flaw 
could  be  detected,  nor  deduction  controverted  ;  and  he  filled 
up,  as  we  proceeded,  from  the  science  of  his  own  clear  and  en» 
larged  mind,  the  various  parts  which  the  political  logician  had 
left  for  reflection  to  complete.  My  uncle  had  this  great  virtue 
of  an  expositor,  that  he  never  over-explained  ;  he  never  made 
a  parade  of  his  lecture,  nor  confused  what  was  simple  by  un- 
necessary comment. 

When  we  broke  off  our  first  day's  employment  I  was  quite 
astonished  at  the  new  light  which  had  gleamed  upon  me.  I 
felt  like  Sinbad  the  sailor,  when,  in  wandering  through  the 
cavern  in  which  he  had  been  buried  alive,  he  caught  the  first 
glimpse  of  the  bright  day.  Naturally  eager  in  everything  I 
undertook,  fond  of  application,  and  addicted  to  reflect  over 
the  various  bearings  of  any  object  that  once  engrossed  my  at- 
tention, I  made  great  advance  in  my  new  pursuit.  After  my 
uncle  had  brought  me  to  be  thoroughly  conversant  with  certain 
and  definite  principles,  we  proceeded  to  illustrate  them  from 
fact.  For  instance,  when  we  had  finished  the  "  Essay  upon 
Government,"  we  examined  into  the  several  constitutions  of 
England,  British  America,  and  France  ;  the  three  countries 
which  pretend  the  most  to  excellence  in  their  government  : 
and  we  were  enabled  to  perceive  and  judge  the  defects  and 
meri!.s  of  each,  because  we  had,  previously  to  our  examination, 
established  certain  rules,  by  which  they  were  to  be  investigated 
and  tried.  Here  my  sceptical  indifference  to  facts  was  my 
chief  reason  for  readily  admitting  knowledge.  I  had  no  pre- 
judices to  contend  with  ;  no  obscure  notions  gleaned  from  the 
past ;  no  popular  maxims  cherished  as  truths.  Everything  was 
placed  before  me  as  before  a  wholly  impartial  inquirer — freed 
from  all  the  decorations  and  delusions  of  sects  and  parties  : 
every  argument  was  stated  with  logical  precision,  every  opinion 
referred  to  a  logical  test.  Hence,  in  a  very  short  time,  I  owned 
the  justice  of  my  uncle's  assurance  as  to  the  comparative  con- 
centration of  knowledge.  We  went  over  the  whole  of  Mill's 
admirable  articles  in  the  Encyclopaedia,  over  the  more  popular 
works  of  Bentham,  and  thence  we  plunged  into  the  recesses  of 


*42  PELHAM  J 

political  economy.  I  know  not  why  this  study  has  been  termed 
uninteresting.  No  sooner  had  I  entered  upon  its  consideration 
than  I  could  scarcely  tear  myself  from  it.  Never  from  that 
moment  to  this  have  I  ceased  to  pay  the  most  constant  atten- 
tion, not  so  much  as  a  study  as  an  amusement ;  but  at  that 
time  my  uncle's  object  was  not  to  make  me  a  profound  political 
economist.  "I  wish, "said  he,  "merely  to  give  you  an  ac- 
quaintance with  the  principles  of  the  science  ;  not  that  you 
may  be  entitled  to  boast  of  knowledge,  but  that  you  may  be 
enabled  to  avoid  ignorance  ;  not  that  you  may  discover  truth, 
but  that  you  may  detect  error.  Of  all  sciences,  political 
economy  is  contained  in  the  fewest  books,  and  yet  is  the  most 
difficult  to  master  ;  because  all  its  higher  branches  require 
earnestness  of  reflection,  proportioned  to  the  scantiness  of  read- 
ing. Ricardo's  work,  together  with  some  conversational  en- 
largement on  the  several  topics  he  treats  of,  will  be  enough  for 
our  present  purpose.  I  wish,  then,  to  show  you  how  inseparably 
allied  is  the  great  science  of  public  policy  with  that  of  private 
morality.  And  this,  Henry,  is  the  grandest  object  of  all.  Now 
to  our  present  study." 

Well,  gentle  reader  (I  love,  by  the  by,  as  you  already  per- 
ceive, that  old-fashioned  courtesy  of  addressing  you)  ;  well,  to 
finish  this  part  of  my  life,  which,  as  it  treats  rather  of  my  at- 
tempts at  reformation  than  my  success  in  error,  must  begin  to 
weary  you  exceedingly,  I  acquired,  more  from  my  uncle's  con- 
versation than  the  books  we  read,  a  sufficient  acquaintance 
with  the  elements  of  knowledge  to  satisfy  myself  and  to  please 
my  instructor.  And  I  must  say,  in  justification  of  my  studies 
and  my  tutor,  that  I  derived  one  benefit  from  them  which  has 
continued  with  me  to  this  hour,  viz.,  I  obtained  a  clear  knowl- 
edge of  moral  principle.  Before  that  time,  the  little  ability  I 
possessed  only  led  me  into  acts,  which,  I  fear,  most  benevolenti 
reader,  thou  hast  already  sufficiently  condemned  :  my  good 
feelings — for  I  was  not  naturally  bad — never  availed  me  the 
least  when  present  temptation  came  into  my  way.  I  had  no 
guide  but  passion  ;  no  rule  but  the  impulse  of  the  moment. 
What  else  could  have  been  the  result  of  my  education  ?  If  II 
was  immoral,  it  was  because  I  was  never  taught  morality. 
Nothing,  perhaps,  is  less  innate  than  virtue.  I  own  that  the 
lessons  of  my  uncle  did  not  work  miracles  ;  that,  living  in  the 
world,  I  have  not  separated  myself  from  its  errors  and  its  fol- 
lies :  the  vortex  was  too  strong,  the  atmosphere  too  contagious  ; 
but  I  have  at  least  avoided  the  crimes  into  which  my  temper 
would  most  likely  have  driven  me.  I  ceased  to  look  upon  the 


OR,  ADVENTURES   OF    A    GENTLEMAtf.  143 

world  as  a  game  one  was  to  play  fairly,  if  possible,  but  where 
a  little  cheating  was  readily  allowed  ;  I  no  longer  divorced  the 
interests  of  other  men  from  my  own  :  if  I  endeavored  to  blind 
them,  it  was  neither  by  unlawful  means,  nor  fora  purely  selfish 
end  ;  if — but  come,  Henry  Pelham,  thou  hast  praised  thyself 
enough  for  the  present ;  and,  after  all,  thy  future  adventures 
will  best  tell  if  thou  art  really  amended. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

"  — Mihi  jam  non  regia  Roma, 
Sed  vacuum  Tibur  placet." — HOR. 

"  MY  dear  child,"  said  my  mother  to  me  affectionately, 
"  you  must  be  very  much  bored  here.  To  say  truth,  I  am  so 
myself.  Your  uncle  is  a  very  good  man,  but  he  does  not 
make  his  house  pleasant ;  and  I  have,  lately,  been  very  much 
afraid  tha4:  he  should  convert  you  into  a  mere  bookworm  ;  after 
all,  my  dear  Henry,  you  are  quite  clever  enough  to  trust  to 
your  own  ability.  Your  great  geniuses  never  read." 

"  True,  my  dear  mother,"  said  I,  with  a  most  unequivocal 
yawn,  and  depositing  on  the  table  Mr.  Bentham  on  Popular 
Fallacies  ;  "true,  and  I  am  quite  of  your  opinion.  Did  you 
see  in  the  Post  of  this  morning  how  full  Cheltenham  was?" 

"  Yes,  Henry ;  and,  now  you  mention  it,  I  don't  think  you 
could  do  better  than  to  go  there  for  a  month  or  two.  As  for 

me,  I  must  return  to  your  father,  whom  I  left  at  Lord  H 's  : 

a  place,  entre  nous,  very  little  more  amusing  than  this — but 
then  one  does  get  one's  e'carte  table,  and  that  dear  Lady  Rose- 
ville,  your  old  acquaintance,  is  staying  there." 

"  Well,"  said  I  musingly,  "suppose  we  take  our  departure 
the  beginning  of  next  week  ?  Our  way  will  be  the  same  as  far 
as  London,  and  the  plea  of  attending  you  will  be  a  good  excuse 
to  my  uncle  for  proceeding  no  farther  in  these  confounded 
books." 

"  Cest  une  affaire  finie"  replied  my  mother,  "  and  I  will 
speak  to  your  uncle  myself." 

Accordingly  the  necessary  disclosure  of  our  intentions  was 
made.  Lord  Glenmorris  received  it  with  proper  indifference, 
so  far  as  my  mother  was  concerned  ;  but  expressed  much  pain 
at  my  leaving  him  so  soon.  However,  when  he  found  I  was 
not  so  much  gratified  as  honored  by  his  wishes  for  my  longer 
stjour,  he  gave  up  the  point  with  a  delicacy  that  enchanted  me. 


144  PELHAM  ; 

The  morning  of  our  departure  arrived.  Carriage  at  the 
door — bandboxes  in  the  passage — breakfast  on  the  table — 
myself  in  my  great-coat — my  uncle  in  his  great  chair.  "  My 
dear  boy,"  said  he,  "  I  trust  we  shall  meet  again  soon  :  you 
have  abilities  that  may  make  you  capable  of  effecting  much 
good  to  your  fellow-creatures  ;  but  you  are  fond  of  the  world, 
and,  though  not  averse  to  application,  devoted  to  pleasure,  and 
likely  to  pervert  the  gifts  you  possess.  At  all  events,  you  have 
now  learned,  both  as  a  public  character  and  a  private  individual, 
the  difference  between  good  and  evil.  Make  but  this  distinc- 
tion :  that  whereas,  in  political  science,  the  rules  you  have 
learned  may  be  fixed  and  unerring,  yet  the  application  of  them 
must  vary  with  time  and  circumstance.  We  must  bend,  tem- 
porize, and  frequently  withdraw,  doctrines  which,  invariable 
in  their  truth,  the  prejudices  of  the  time  will  not  invariably 
allow,  and  even  relinquish  a  faint  hope  of  obtaining  a  great 
good  for  the  certainty  of  obtaining  a  lesser  ;  yet  in  the  science 
of  private  morals,  which  relate  for  the  main  part  to  ourselves 
individually,  we  have  no  right  to  deviate  one  single  iota  from 
the  rule  of  our  conduct.  Neither  time  nor  circumstance  must 
cause  us  to  modify  or  to  change.  Integrity  knows  no  varia- 
tion ;  honesty  no  shadow  of  turning.  We  must  pursue  the 
same  course — stern  and  uncompromising — in  the  full  persua- 
sion that  the  path  of  right  is  like  the  bridge  from  earth  to 
heaven  in  the  Mahometan  creed  ;  if  we  swerve  but  a  single 
hair's  breadth,  we  are  irrevocably  lost." 

At  this  moment  my  mother  joined  us  with  a  "Well,  my  dear 
Henry,  everything  is  ready — we  have  no  time  to  lose." 

My  uncle  rose,  pressed  my  hand,  and  left  in  it  a  pocket-book, 
which  I  afterwards  discovered  to  be  most  satisfactorily  fur- 
nished. We  took  an  edifying  and  affectionate  farewell  of  each 
other,  passed  through  the  two  rows  of  servants,  drawn  up  in 
martial  array,  along  the  great  hall,  and  I  entered  the  carriage 
and  went  off  with  the  rapidity  of  a  novel  upon  "fashionable  life." 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

"  Die — si  grave  non  est — 
Quae  prima  iratum  ventrem  placaverit  esca." — HOR. 

I  DID  not  remain  above  a  day  or  two  in  town.     I  had  never 
seen  much  of  the  humors  of  a  watering-place,  and  my  love  of 


OR,    ADVENTURES    OF    A    GENTLEMAN.  145 

observing  character  made  me  exceedingly  impatient  for  that 
pleasure.  Accordingly  the  first  bright  morning  I  set  off  for 
Cheltenham.  I  was  greatly  struck  with  the  entrance  to  that 
town  :  it  is  to  these  watering-places  that  a  foreigner  should  be 
taken  in  order  to  give  him  an  adequate  idea  of  the  magnificent 
opulence  and  universal  luxury  of  England.  Our  country  has, 
in  every  province,  what  France  only  has  in  Paris — a  capital, 
consecrated  to  gayety,  idleness,  and  enjoyment.  London  is 
both  too  busy  in  one  class  of  society,  and  too  pompous  in  an- 
other, to  please  a  foreigner  who  has  not  excellent  recommen- 
dations to  private  circles.  But  at  Brighton,  Cheltenham,  Has- 
tings, Bath,  he  may,  as  at  Paris,  find  all  the  gayeties  of  society 
without  knowing  a  single  individual. 

My  carriage  stopped  at  the Hotel.     A   corpulent  and 

stately  waiter.with  gold  buckles  to  a  pair  of  very  tight  pantaloons, 
showed  me  upstairs.  I  found  myself  in  a  tolerable  room  facing 
the  street,  and  garnished  with  two  pictures  of  rocks  and  rivers, 
with  a  comely  flight  of  crows  hovering  in  the  horizon  of  both, 
as  natural  as  possible — only  they  were  a  little  larger  than  the 
trees.  Over  the  chimney-piece,  where  I  had  fondly  hoped  to 
find  a  looking-glass,  was  a  grave  print  of  General  Washington, 
with  one  hand  stuck  out  like  the  spout  of  a  teapot.  Between 
the  two  windows  (unfavorable  position  ! )  was  an  oblongmirror, 
to  which  I  immediately  hastened,  and  had  the  pleasure  of  see- 
ing my  complexion  catch  the  color  of  the  curtains  that  over- 
hung the  glass  on  each  side,  and  exhibit  the  pleasing  rurality 
of  a  pale  green. 

I  shrunk  back  aghast,  turned,  and  beheld  the  waiter.  Had 
I  seen  myself  in  a  glass  delicately  shaded  by  rose-hued  curtains, 
I  should  gently  and  smilingly  have  said  ;  "  Have  the  goodness 
to  bring  me  the  bill  of  fare."  As  it  was,  I  growled  out  ; 
"  Bring  me  the  bill." 

The  stiff  waiter  bowed  solemnly,  and  withdrew  slowly.  I 
looked  round  the  room  once  more,  and  discovered  the  addi- 
tional adornments  of  a  tea-urn,  and  a  book.  "  Thank  Heaven," 
thought  I,  as  I  took  up  the  latter,  "it  can't  be  one  of  Jeremy 
Bentham's."  No  !  it  was  the  Cheltenham  Guide.  I  turned  to 

the  head  of  amusements — "Dress  ball  at  the  rooms  every " 

some  day  or  other — which  of  the  seven  I  utterly  forget ;  but 
it  was  the  same  as  that  which  witnessed  my  first  arrival  in  the 
small  drawing-room  of  the Hotel. 

"  Thank  Heaven  !  "  said  I  to  myself,  as  Bedos  entered  with 
my  things,  and  was  ordered  immediately  to  have  all  in  prepara- 
tion for  "  the  dress-ball  at  the  rooms,"  at  the  hour  of  half-past 


146  PELHAM  ; 

ten.  The  waiter  entered  with  the  bill.  "  Soups,  chops,  cutlets, 
steaks,  roast  joints,  etc.,  etc. — lion,  birds." 

"  Get  some  soup,"  said  I,  "  a  slice  or  two  of  lion,  and  half 
a  dozen  birds." 

"  Sir,"  said  the  solemn  waiter,  "  you  can't  have  less  than  a 
whole  lion,  and  we  have  only  two  birds  in  the  house." 

"  Pray,"  asked  I,  "  are  you  in  the  habit  of  supplying  your 
larder  from  Exeter  'Change,  or  do  you  breed  lions  here  like 
poultry  ?" 

"  Sir,"  answered  the  grim  waiter,  never  relaxing  into  a  smile, 
"  we  have  lions  brought  us  from  the  country  every  day." 

"  What  do  you  pay  for  them  ?"  said  I. 

"  About  three  and  sixpence  apiece,  sir." 

"  Humph  !  market  in  Africa  over-stocked,"  thought  I. 

"  Pray,  how  do  you  dress  an  animal  of  that  description?" 

"  Roast  and  stuff  him,  sir,  and  serve  him  up  with  currant 
jelly." 

"  What !  like  a  hare  !  " 

"A  lion  is  a  hare,  sir." 

"  What ! " 

"  Yes,  sir,  it  is  a  hare  ! — but  we  call  it  a  lion,  because  of  the 
Game  Laws." 

"Bright  discovery,"  thought  I  ;  "  they  have  a  new  language 
in  Cheltenham  ;  nothing's  like  travelling  to  enlarge  the  mind." 
"And  the  birds,"  said  I,  aloud,  "are  neither  humming-birds 
nor  ostriches,  I  suppose  ? " 

"  No,  sir  ;  they  are  partridges." 

"  Well,  then,  give  me  some  soup,  a  cutlet,  and  a  '  bird,'  as 
you  term  it,  and  be  quick  about  it." 

"  Jt  shall  be  done  with  despatch,"  answered  the  pompous 
attendant,  and  withdrew. 

Is  there,  in  the  whole  course  of  this  pleasant  and  varying 
life,  which  young  gentlemen  and  ladies  write  verses  to  prove 
same  and  sorrowful — is  there  in  the  whole  course  of  it,  one 
half-hour  really  and  genuinely  disagreeable  ?  If  so,  it  is  the 
half-hour  before  dinner  at  a  strange  inn.  Nevertheless,  by  the 
help  of  philosophy  and  the  window,  I  managed  to  endure  it 
with  great  patience:  and,  though  I  was  famishing  with  hunger, 
I  pretended  the  indifference  of  a  sage,  even  when  the  dinner 
was  at  length  announced.  I  coquetted  a  whole  minute  with 
my  napkin  before  I  attempted  the  soup,  and  I  helped  myself 
to  the  potatory  food  with  a  slow  dignity  that  must  have  per- 
fectly won  the  heart  of  the  solemn  waiter.  The  soup  was  a 
little  better  than  hot  water,  and  the  sharp-sauced  cutlet  than 


OR,    ADVENTURES    OF    A    GENTi,EM«K.  147 

leather  and  vinegar ;  howbeit,  I  attacked  them  with  the  vigor 
of  an  Irishman,  and  washed  them  down  with  a  bottle  of  the 
worst  liquor  ever  dignified  with  the  venerabile  nomen  of  claret. 
The  bird  was  tough  enough  to  have  passed  for  an  ostrich  in 
miniature ;  and  I  felt  its  ghost  hopping  about  the  stomachic 
sepulchre  to  which  I  consigned  it  the  whole  of  that  evening, 
and  a  great  portion  of  the  next  day,  when  a  glass  of  curafoa 
laid  it  at  rest. 

After  this  splendid  repast  I  flung  myself  back  on  my  chair 
with  the  complacency  of  a  man  who  has  dined  well,  and  dozed 
away  the  time  till  the  hour  of  dressing. 

"  Now,"  thought  I,  as  I  placed  myself  before  my  glass, 
"  shall  I  gently  please,  or  sublimely  astonish  the  'fashionables' 
of  Cheltenham  ?  Ah,  bah  !  the  latter  school  is  vulgar,  Byron 
spoilt  it.  Don't  put  out  that  chain,  Bedos,  I  wear — the  black 
coat,  waistcoat,  and  trousers.  Brush  my  hair  as  much  out  of 
curl  as  you  can,  and  give  an  air  of  graceful  negligence  to  my 
tout  ensemble" 

"Out,  monsieur,  je  comprends"  answered  Bedos. 

I  was  soon  dressed,  for  it  is  the  design,  not  the  execution,  of 
all  great  undertakings  which  requires  deliberation  and  delay. 
Action  cannot  be  too  prompt.  A  chair  was  called,  and  Henry 
Pelham  was  conveyed  to  the  rooms. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

"  Now  see,  prepared  to  lead  the  sprightly  dance, 
The  lovely  nymphs,  and  well-dress'd  youths  advance  ; 
The  spacious  room  receives  its  jovial  guest, 
And  the  floor  shakes,  with  pleasing  weight  oppress'd." — Art  of  Dancing 

Page.   "  His  name,  my  lord,  is  Tyrrell." — Richard  III. 

UPON  entering,  I  saw  several  heads  rising  and  sinking  to  the 
tune  of  "  Cherry  Ripe."  A  whole  row  of  stiff  necks,  in  cravats 
of  the  most  unexceptionable  length  and  breadth,  were  just  be- 
fore me.  A  tall,  thin  young  man,  with  dark,  wiry  hair  brushed 
on  one  side,  was  drawing  on  a  pair  of  white  Woodstock  gloves, 
and  affecting  to  look  round  the  room  with  the  supreme  indif- 
ference of  ban  ton. 

"Ah,  Ritson,"  said  another  young  Cheltenhamian  to  him  of 
the  Woodstock  gauntlets,  "  haven't  you  been  dancing  yet?" 

"  No,  Smith,  'pon  honor,"  answered  Mr.  Ritson  ;  "  it  is  so 


148  PELHAM  J 

overpoweringly  hot  ;  no  fashionable  man  dances  now  ;  it  isnt 
the  thing." 

"Why,"  replied  Mr.  Smith, who  was  a  good-natured  looking 
person,  with  a  blue  coat  and  brass  buttons,  and  a  gold  pin  in 
his  neckcloth,  "  why,  they  dance  at  Almack's,  don't  they  ?" 

"  No,  'pon  honor,"  murmured  Mr.  Ritson  ;  "no,  they  just 
walk  a  quadrille  or  spin  a  waltz,  as  my  friend,  Lord  Bobadob, 
calls  it ;  nothing  more — no,  hang  dancing,  'tis  so  vulgar." 

A  stout,  red-faced  man,  about  thirty,  with  wet  auburn  hair, 
a  marvellously  fine  waistcoat,  and  a  badly  washed  frill,  now 
joined  Messrs.  Ritson  and  Smith. 

"Ah,  Sir  Ralph,"  cried  Smith,  "how  d'ye  do?  Been  hunt- 
ing all  day,  I  suppose  ?" 

"Yes,  old  cock,"  replied  Sir  Ralph  ;  "been  after  the  brush 
till  I  am  quite  done  up;  such  a  glorious  run  !  By  G — ,  you 
should  have  seen  my  gray  mare,  Smith  ;  by  G — ,  she's  a  glori- 
ous fencer." 

"You  don't  hunt,  do  you,  Ritson?"  interrogated  Mr.  Smith. 

"Yes,  I  do,"  replied  Mr.  Ritson,  affectedly  playing  with  his 
Woodstock  glove  ;  "yes,  but  I  only  hunt  in  Leicestershire,  with 
my  friend,  Lord  Bobadob  ;  'tis  not  the  thing  to  hunt  anywhere 
else." 

Sir  Ralph  stared  at  the  speaker  with  mute  contempt :  while 
Mr.  Smith,  like  the  ass  between  the  hay,  stood  balancing  be- 
twixt the  opposing  merits  of  the  Baronet  and  the  beau.  Mean- 
while, a  smiling,  nodding,  affected  female  thing,  in  ringlets 
and  flowers,  flirted  up  to  the  trio. 

"Now,  reelly,  Mr.  Smith,  you  should  deence  ;  a  feeshionable 
young  man,  like  you — I  don't  know  what  the  young  leedies 
will  say  to  you."  And  the  fair  seducer  laughed  bewitchingly. 

"You  are  very  good,  Mrs.  Dollimore,"  replied  Mr.  Smith, 
with  a  blush  and  a  low  bow;  "but  Mr.  Ritson  tells  me  it  is 
not  the  thing  to  dance." 

"Oh,"  cried  Mrs.  Dollimore,  "but  then  he's  seech  a  naughty, 
conceited  creature — don't  follow  his  example,  Meester  Smith  "  ; 
and  again  the  good  lady  laughed  immoderately. 

"Nay,  Mrs.  Dollimore,"  said  Mr.  Ritson,  passing  his  hand 
through  his  abominable  hair,  "you  are  too  severe  ;  but  tell  me, 
Mrs.  Dollimore,  is  the  Countess coming  here  ?" 

"Now,  reelly,  Mr.  Ritson, ^w/,  who  are  the  pink  of  feeshion, 
ought  to  know  better  than  I  can  ;  but  I  hear  so." 

"  Do  you  know  the  Countess  ? "  said  Mr.  Smith,  in  respectful 
surprise,  to  Ritson. 

"Oh,  very  well,"   replied  the  Coryphaeus  of    Cheltenham, 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          149 

swinging  his  Woodstock  glove  to  and  fro;  "I  have  often 
danced  with  her  at  Alrnack's." 

"Is  she  a  good  deencer?"  asked  Mrs.  Dollimore. 

"Oh,  capital,"  responded  Mr.  Ritson  ;  "she's  such  a  nice 
genteel  little  figure," 

Sir  Ralph,  apparently  tired  of  this  "  feeshionabie "  conver- 
sation, swaggered  away. 

"Pray,"  said  Mrs.  Dollimore,  "who  is  that  geentleman?" 

"Sir  Ralph  Rumford,"  replied  Smith  eagerly,  "a  particular 
friend  of  mine  at  Cambridge." 

"I  wonder  if  he's  going  to  make  a  long  steey?"  said  Mrs. 
Dollimore. 

"Yes,  I  believe  so,"  replied  Mr.  Smith,  "if  we  make  it 
agreeable  to  him." 

"You  must  poositively  introduce  him  to  me,"  said  Mrs. 
Dollimore. 

"I  will,  with  great  pleasure,"  said  the  good-natured  Mr.  Smith. 

"Is  Sir  Ralph  a  man  of  fashion?"  inquired  Mr.  Ritson. 

"  He's  a  Baronet  ! "  emphatically  pronounced  Mr.  Smith. 

"Ah!"  replied  Ritson,  "but  he  may  be  a  man  of  rank, 
without  being  a  man  of  fashion." 

"True,"  lisped  Mrs.  Dollimore. 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  Smith,  with  an  air  of  puzzled  won- 
derment, "but  he  has  ^£7000  a  year." 

"Has  he,  indeed?"  cried  Mrs.  Dollimore,  surprised  into 
her  natural  tone  of  voice  ;  and,  at  that  moment,  a  young  lady, 
ringletted  and  flowered  like  herself,  joined  her,  and  accosted 
her  by  the  endearing  appellation  of  "Mamma." 

"  Have  you  been  dancing,  my  love  ? "  inquired  Mrs.  Dol- 
limore. 

"  Yes,  ma  ;  with  Captain  Johnson." 

"Oh,"  said  the  mother,  with  a  toss  of  her  head  ;  and,  giving 
her  daughter  a  significant  push,  she  walked  away  with  her  to 
another  end  of  the  room,  to  talk  about  Sir  Ralph  Rumford, 
and  his  ^7000  a-year. 

"  Well !  "  thought  I,  "  odd  people  these  ;  let  us  enter  a  little 
farther  into  this  savage  country."  In  accordance  with  this 
reflection,  I  proceeded  towards  the  middle  of  the  room. 

"  Who's  that  ? "  said  Mr.  Smith,  in  a  loud  whisper  as  I 
passed  him. 

"Ton  honor,"  answered  Ritson,  "  I  don't  know!  but  he's  a 
deuced  neat-looking  fellow." 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Ritson,"  said  my  vanity ;  "you  are  not  so 
offensive  after  all." 


150  PELHAM  ; 

I  paused  to  look  at  the  dancers;  a  middle-aged,  respectable- 
looking  gentleman  was  beside  me.  Common  people,  after  they 
have  passed  forty,  grow  social.  My  neighbor  hemmed  twice, 
and  made  preparation  for  speaking.  "  I  may  as  well  encourage 
him,"  was  my  reflection ;  accordingly  I  turned  round,  with  a 
most  good-natured  expression  of  countenance. 

"  A  fine  room  this,  sir,"  said  the  man  immediately. 

"Very,"  said  I,  with  a  smile,  "  and  extremely  well  rilled." 

"  Ah,  sir,"  answered  my  neighbor,  "  Cheltenham  is  not  as  it 
used  to  be  some  fifteen  years  ago.  I  have  seen  as  many  as  one 
thousand  two  hundred  and  fifty  persons  within  these  walls 
(certain  people  are  always  so  d — d  particularizing)  ;  ay,  sir," 
pursued  my  laudator  temporis  acti,  "  and  half  the  peerage  here 
into  the  bargain." 

"  Indeed  ! "  quoth  I,  with  an  air  of  surprise  suited  to  the 
information  I  received,  "but  the  society  is  very  good  still,  is 
it  not?" 

"  Oh,  very  genteel"  replied  the  man  ;  "  but  not  so  dashing 
as  it  used  to  be."  (Oh  !  those  two  horrid  words !  low  enough 
to  suit  even  the  author  of  " .") 

"  Pray,"  asked  I,  glancing  at  Messrs.  Ritson  and  Smith,  "do 
you  know  who  those  gentlemen  are  ?  " 

"  Extremely  well  J."  replied  my  neighbor;  "the  tall  young 
man  is  Mr.  Ritson  ;  his  mother  has  a  house  in  Baker  Street,  and 
gives  quite  elegant  parties.  He's  a  most  genteel  young  man  ; 
but  such  an  insufferable  coxcomb." 

"  And  the  other  ? "  said  I. 

"  Oh  !  he's  a  Mr.  Smith ;  his  father  was  an  eminent  brewer, 
and  is  lately  dead,  leaving  each  of  his  sons  thirty  thousand 
pounds  ;  the  young  Smith  is  a  knowing  hand,  and  wants  to 
spend  his  money  with  spirit.  He  has  a  great  passion  for  '  high 
life,'  and  therefore  attaches  himself  much  to  Mr.  Ritson,  who 
is  quite  that  way  inclined." 

"  He  could  not  have  selected  a  better  model,"  said  I. 

"  True,"  rejoined  my  Cheltenham  Asmodeus,  with  naive  sim- 
plicity ;  "  but  I  hope  he  won't  adopt  his  conceit  as  well  as  his 
elegance." 

"I  shall  die,"  said  I  to  myself,  "if  I  talk  with  this  fellow 
any  longer,"  and  I  was  just  going  to  glide  away,  when  a  tall, 
stately  dowager,  with  two  lean,  scraggy  daughters,  entered 
the  room  ;  I  could  not  resist  pausing  to  inquire  who  they 
were. 

My  friend  looked  at  me  with  a  very  altered  and  disrespectful 
air  at  this  interrogation.  "  Who  ?  "  said  he,  "  why,  the  Countess 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         15! 

of  Babbleton  and  her  two  daughters,  the  Honorable  Lady 
Jane  Babel,  and  the  Honorable  Lady  Mary  Babel.  They  are 
the  great  people  of  Cheltenham,"  pursued  he,  "and  it's  a  fine 
thing  to  get  into  their  set." 

Meanwhile  Lady  Babbleton  and  her  two  daughters  swept  up 
the  room,  bowing  and  nodding  to  the  riven  ranks  on  each  side, 
who  made  their  salutations  with  the  most  profound  respect. 
My  experienced  eye  detected  in  a  moment  that  Lady  Babble- 
ton,  in  spite  of  her  title  and  her  stateliness,  was  exceedingly  the 
reverse  of  good  ton,  and  the  daughters  (who  did  not  resemble 
the  scrag  of  mutton,  but  its  ghost)  had  an  appearance  of  sour 
affability  which  was  as  different  from  the  manners  of  proper 
society  as  it  possibly  could  be. 

I  wondered  greatly  who  and  what  they  were.  In  the  eyes 
of  the  Cheltenhamians  they  were  the  Countess  and  her  daugh- 
ters ;  and  any  further  explanation  would  have  been  deemed 
quite  superfluous  ;  further  explanation  I  was,  however,  deter- 
mined to  procure,  and  was  walking  across1  the  room  in  pro- 
found meditation  as  to  the  method  in  which  the  discovery 
should  be  made,  when  I  was  startled  by  the  voice  of  Sir 
Lionel  Garrett  ;  I  turned  round,  and,  to  my  inexpressible  joy, 
beheld  that  worthy  Baronet. 

"Bless  me,  Pelham,"  said  he,  "how  delighted  I  am  to  see 
you  !  Lady  Harriet,  here's  your  old  favorite,  Mr.  Pelham." 

Lady  Harriet  was  all  smiles  and  pleasure.  "  Give  me  your 
arm,"  said  she  ;  "  I  must  go  and  speak  to  Lady  Babbleton — 
odious  woman  ! " 

"  Do,  my  dear  Lady  Harriet,"  said  I,  "  explain  to  me  what 
Lady  Babbleton  was." 

"  Why — she  was  a  milliner,  and  took  in  the  late  lord,  who 
was  an  idiot.  Voilci  tout!"1 

"  Perfectly  satisfactory,"  replied  I. 

"  Or,  short  and  sweet,  as  Lady  Babbleton  would  say,"  re- 
plied Lady  Harriet,  laughing. 

"  In  antithesis  to  her  daughters,  who  are  long  and  sour." 

"Oh,  you  satirist !"  said  the  affected  Lady  Harriet  (who 
was  only  three  removes  better  than  the  Cheltenham  Countess), 
"  but  tell  me,  how  long  have  you  been  at  Cheltenham  ?  " 

"  About  four  hours  and  a  half  !  " 

"Then  you  don't  know  any  of  the  lions  here?" 

"  None,  except  (I  added  to  myself)  the  lion  I  had  for  dinner." 

"  Well,  let  me  despatch  Lady  Babbleton,  and  I'll  then  de- 
vote myself  to  being  your  nomenclator." 

We  walked  up  to  Lady  Babbleton,  who  had  already  disposed 


152  PELHAM  ; 

of  her  daughters,  and  was  sitting  in  solitary  dignity  at  the  end 
of  the  room. 

"  My  dear  Lady  Babbleton,"  cried  Lady  Harriet,  taking 
both  the  hands  of  the  dowager,  "  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you,  and 
how  well  you  are  looking  ;  and  your  charming  daughters,  how 
are  they  ? — sweet  girls  ! — and  how  long  have  you  been 
here  ?  " 

"  We  have  only  just  come,"  replied  the  ci-devant  milliner, 
half-rising,  and  rustling  her  plumes  in  stately  agitation  like  a 
nervous  parrot  ;  "  we  must  conform  to  modern  'ours,  Lady 
' Arriett,  though,  for  my  part,  I  like  the  old-fashioned  plan  of 
dining  early,  and  finishing  one's  gayeties  before  midnight  ;  but 
I  set  the  fashion  of  good  'ours  as  well  as  I  can.  I  think  it's  a 
duty  we  owe  to  society,  Lady  'Arriett,  to  encourage  moralitv 
by  our  own  example.  What  else  do  we  have  rank  for?  "  And 
so  saying,  the  counter-countess  drew  herself  up  with  a  most  edi- 
fying air  of  moral  dignity. 

Lady  Harriet  looked  at  me,  and  perceiving  that  my  eye 
said  "  Go  on,"  as  plainly  as  eye  could  possibly  speak,  she  con- 
tinued :  "  Which  of  the  wells  do  you  attend,  Lady  Babbleton?  " 

"  All,"  replied  the  patronizing  dowager.  "  I  like  to  en- 
courage the  poor  people  here  ;  I've  no  notion  of  being  proud 
because  one  has  a  title,  Lady  'Arriett" 

"  No,"  rejoined  the  worthy  helpmate  of  Sir  Lionel  Garrett ; 
"everybody  talks  of  your  condescension,  Lady  Babbleton  ; 
but  are  you  not  afraid  of  letting  yourself  down  by  going 
everywhere  ?  " 

"Oh,"  answered  the  Countess,  "I  admit  very  few  into  my 
set  at  home,  but  \  go  out  promiscuously" ;  and  then,  looking  at 
me,  she  said,  in  a  whisper,  to  Lady  Harriet,  "  Who  is  that 
nice  young  gentleman  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Pelham,"  replied  Lady  Harriet ;  and,  turning  to  me, 
formally  introduced  us  to  each  other. 

"  Are  you  any  relation  (asked  the  dowager)  to  Lady  Frances 
Pelham  ?  " 

"Only  her  son,"  said  I. 

"  Dear  me,"  replied  Lady  Babbleton,  "  how  odd.  What  a 
nice  elegant  woman  she  is  !  She  does  not  go  much  out,  does 
she  ?  I  don't  often  meet  her." 

"I  should  not  think  it  likely  that  your  ladyship  did  meet  her 
much.  She  does  not  visit  promiscuously." 

"  Every  rank  has  its  duty,"  said  Lady  Harriet  gravely ; 
"your  mother,  Mr.  Pelham,  may  confine  her  circle  as  much  as 
she  pleases  ;  but  the  high  rank  of  Lady  Babbleton  requires 


OR,  ADVENTURES    OF    A    GENTLEMAN.  153 

greater  condescension  ;  just  as  the  Dukes  of  Sussex  and 
Gloucester  go  to  many  places  where  you  and  I  would 
not." 

"Very  true!"  said  the  innocent  dowager;  "and  that's  a 
very  sensible  remark  !  Were  you  at  Bath  last  winter,  Mr. 
Pelham?"  continued  the  Countess,  whose  thoughts  wandered 
from  subject  to  subject  in  the  most  rudderless  manner. 

"No,  Lady  Babbleton,  I  was  unfortunately  at  a  less  dis- 
tinguished place." 

"What  was  that?" 

"Paris." 

"  Oh,  indeed  !  I've  never  been  abroad  ;  I  don't  think  per- 
sons of  a  certain  rank  should  leave  England  ;  they  should  stay 
at  home  and  encourage  their  own  manufactories." 

"  Ah  ! "  cried  I,  taking  hold  of  Lady  Babbleton's  shawl, 
"  what  a  pretty  Manchester  pattern  this  is." 

"  Manchester  pattern  !  "  exclaimed  the  petrified  peeress  ; 
"  why,  it  is  real  cachemire  :  you  don't  think  J  wear  anything 
English,  Mr.  Pelham?" 

"  I  beg  your  ladyship  ten  thousand  pardons.  I  am  no  judge 
of  dress  ;  but  to  return — I  am  quite  of  your  opinion,  that  we 
ought  to  encourage  our  own  manufactories,  and  not  go  abroad  : 
but  one  cannot  stay  long  on  the  Continent,  even  if  one  is 
decoyed  there.  One  soon  longs  for  home  again." 

"  Very  sensibly  remarked,"  rejoined  Lady  Babbleton  ;  "that's 
what  I  call  true  patriotism  and  morality.  I  wish  all  the  young 
men  of  the  present  day  were  like  you.  Oh,  dear ! — here's  a 
great  favorite  of  mine  coming  this  way — Mr.  Ritson  ! — do  you 
know  him  ;  shall  I  introduce  you?" 

"  Heaven  forbid  !  "  exclaimed  I,  frightened  out  of  my  wits, 
and  my  manners.  "Come,  Lady  Harriet,  let  us  rejoin  Sir 
Lionel";  and,  "swift  at  the  word,"  Lady  Harriet  retook  my 
arm,  nodded  her  adieu  to  Lady  Babbleton,  and  withdrew  with 
me  to  an  obscurer  part  of  the  room. 

Here  we  gave  way  to  our  laughter  for  some  time  :  "  Is  it 
possible,"  exclaimed  I,  starting  up — "can  that  be  Tyrrell?" 

"  What's  the  matter  with  the  man  ?"  cried  Lady  Harriet. 

I  quickly  recovered  my  presence  of  mind,  and  reseated  my- 
self :  "  Pray  forgive  me,  Lady  Harriet,"  said  I ;  "  but  I  think, 
nay,  I  am  sure,  I  see  a  person  I  once  met  under  very  particular 
circumstances.  Do  you  observe  that  dark  man  in  deep  mourn- 
ing who  has  just  entered  the  room,  and  is  now  speaking  to  Sir 
Ralph  Rumford?" 

"  I  do,  it  is  Sir  John  Tyrrell !  "  replied  Lady  Harriet :  "  he 


154  PELHAM  ; 

only  came  to  Cheltenham  yesterday.  His  is  a  very  singular 
history." 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  said  I  eagerly. 

"  Why  !  he  was  the  only  son  of  a  younger  branch  of  the 
Tyrrells  ;  a  very  old  family,  as  the  name  denotes.  He  was  a 
great  deal  in  a  certain  roue  set,  for  some  years,  and  was  cele- 
brated for  his  gallantries.  His  fortune  was,  however,  perfectly 
unable  to  satisfy  his  expenses  ;  he  took  to  gambling,  and  lost 
the  remains  of  his  property.  He  went  abroad,  and  used  to  be 
seen  at  the  low  gaming  houses  at  Paris,  earning  a  very  degrad- 
ed and  precarious  subsistence;  till,  about  three  months  ago, 
two  persons,  who  stood  between  him  and  the  title  and  es- 
tates of  the  family,  died,  and  most  unexpectedly  he  succeeded  to 
both.  They  say  that  he  was  found  in  the  most  utter  penury 
and  distress  in  a  small  cellar  at  Paris  ;  however  that  may  be, 
he  is  now  Sir  John  Tyrrell,  with  a  very  large  income,  and,  in 
spite  of  a  certain  coarseness  of  manner,  probably  acquired  by 
the  low  company  he  latterly  kept,  he  is  very  much  liked,  and 
even  admired,  by  the  few  good  people  in  the  society  of  Chel- 
tenham." 

At  this  instant  Tyrrell  passed  us  ;  he  caught  my  eye,  stopped 
short,  and  colored  violently.  1  bowed  ;  he  seemed  undecided 
for  a  moment  as  to  the  course  he  should  adopt  ;  it  was  but 
for  a  moment.  He  returned  my  salutation  with  great  appear- 
ance of  cordiality  ;  shook  me  warmly  by  the  hand  ;  expressed 
himself  delighted  to  meet  me  ;  inquired  where  I  was  staying,  and 
said  he  should  certainly  call  upon  me.  With  this  promise  he 
glided  on,  and  was  soon  lost  among  the  crowd. 

"  Where  did  you  meet  him  ? "  said  Lady  Harriet. 

"At  Paris." 

"What  !     Was  he  in  decent  society  there  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  I.  "Good-night,  Lady  Harriet"; 
and,  with  an  air  of  extreme  lassitude,  1  took  my  hat,  and 
vanished  from  that  motley  mixture  of  \hzfashionably  low  and 
the  vulgarly  genteel! 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         155 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

1 '  Full  many  a  lady 

I  have  eyed  with  best  regard,  and  many  a  time 
The  harmony  of  their  tongues  hath  unto  bondage 
Drawn  my  too  diligent  ears. 
But  you,  oh  !  you, 

So  perfect  and  so  peerless,  are  create 
Of  every  creature's  best." — SHAKSPEARE. 

THOU  will  easily  conceive,  my  dear  reader,  who  hast  been 
in  my  confidence  throughout  the  whole  of  this  history,  and 
whom,  though  as  yet  thou  hast  cause  to  esteem  me  but  lightly, 
I  already  love  as  my  familiar  and  my  friend — thou  wilt  easily 
conceive  my  surprise  at  meeting  so  unexpectedly  with  my  old 
hero  of  the  gambling-house.  I  felt  indeed  perfectly  stunned 
at  the  shock  of  so  singular  a  change  in  his  circumstances  since 
I  had  last  met  him.  My  thoughts  reverted  immediately  to 
that  scene,  and  to  the  mysterious  connection  between  Tyrrell 
and  Glanville.  How  would  the  latter  receive  the  intelligence 
of  his  enemy's  good  fortune  ?  was  his  vengeance  yet  satisfied, 
or  through  what  means  could  it  now  find  vent  ? 

A  thousand  thoughts  similar  to  these  occupied  and  distracted 
my  attention  till  morning,  when  I  summoned  Bedos  into  the 
room  to  read  me  to  sleep.  He  opened  a  play  of  Monsieur 
Delavigne's,  and  at  the  beginning  of  the  second  scene  I  was  in 
the  land  of  dreams. 

I  woke  about  two  o'clock  ;  dressed,  sipped  my  chocolate, 
and  was  on  the  point  of  arranging  my  hat  to  the  best  advan- 
tage, when  I  received  the  following  note: 

"  MY  DEAR  PELHAM  : 

"  Me  tibi  commendo.  I  heard  this  morning,  at  your  hotel,  that 
you  were  here  ;  my  heart  was  a  house  of  joy  at  the  intelligence. 
I  called  upon  you  two  hours  ago  ;  but,  like  Antony, 'you  revel 
long  o'  nights.'  Ah,  that  I  could  add  with  Shakspeare,  that 
you  were  '  notwithstanding  up.'  I  have  just  come  from  Paris, 
that  umbilicus  terra,  and  my  adventures  since  I  saw  you,  for 
your  private  satisfaction,  '  because  I  love  you  I  will  let  you 
know  ';  but  you  must  satisfy  me  with  a  meeting.  Till  you  do, 
'the  mighty  gods  defend  you  !  '  VINCENT." 

The  hotel  from  which  Vincent  dated  this  epistle  was  in  the 
same  street  as  my  own  caravanserai,  and  to  this  hotel  I  imme- 
diately set  off.  I  found  my  friend  sitting  before  a  huge  folio, 
which  he  in  vain  endeavored  to  persuade  me  that  he  seriously 


156  PELHAM  ; 

intended  to  read.  We  greeted  each  other  with  the  greatest 
cordiality. 

"But  how,"  said  Vincent,  after  the  first  warmth  of  welcome 
had  subsided,  "  how  shall  I  congratulate  you  upon  your  new 
honors  ?  I  was  not  prepared  to  find  you  grown  from  a  rout 
into  a  senator. 

'  In  gathering  votes  you  were  not  slack, 
Now  stand  as  tightly  by  your  tack, 
Ne'er  show  your  lug  an'  fidge  your  back, 

An*  hum  an'  haw  ; 

But  raise  your  arm,  an'  tell  your  crack 
Before  them  a'.' 

So  saith  Burns  ;  advice  which,  being  interpreted,  meaneth,  that 
you  must  astonish  the  rats  of  St.  Stephen's." 

"Alas  !  "  said  I,  "  all  one's  clap-traps  in  that  house  must  be 
baited." 

"  Nay,  but  a  rat  bites  at  any  cheese,  from  Gloucester  to 
Parmesan,  and  you  can  easily  scrape  up  a  bit  of  some  sort. 
Talking  of  the  House,  do  you  see,  by  the  paper,  that  the  civic 
senator,  Alderman  W ,  is  at  Cheltenham  ?  " 

"  I  was  not  aware  of  it.  I  suppose  he's  cramming  speeches 
and  turtle  for  the  next  season." 

"How  wonderfully,"  said  Vincent,  "your  city  dignities 
unloose  the  tongue  ;  directly  a  man  has  been  a  mayor,  he  thinks 
himself  qualified  for  a  Tully  at  least.  Faith,  the  Lord  Mayor 
asked  me  one  day,  what  was  the  Latin  for  spouting  ?  and  I 
told  him,  '  hippomanes,  or  a  raging  humor  in  mayors'  " 

After  I  had  paid,  through  the  medium  of  my  risible  muscles, 
due  homage  to  this  witticism  of  Vincent's,  he  shut  up  his  folio, 
called  for  his  hat,  and  we  sauntered  down  into  the  street. 

"  When  do  you  go  up  to  town  ?  "  asked  Vincent. 

"  Not  till  my  senatorial  duties  require  me." 

"  Do  you  stay  here  till  then  ?  " 

"  As  it  pleases  the  gods.  But,  good  heavens  !  Vincent, 
what  a  beautiful  girl  !  " 

Vincent  turned,  "  O  Dea  certi"  murmured  he,  and  stopped. 

The  object  of  our  exclamations  was  standing  by  a  corner 
shop,  apparently  waiting  for  some  one  within.  Her  face,  at 
the  moment  I  first  saw  her,  was  turned  full  towards  me.  Never 
had  I  seen  any  countenance  half  so  lovely.  She  was  appar- 
ently about  twenty  ;  her  hair  was  of  the  richest  chestnut,  and 
a  golden  light  played  through  its  darkness,  as  if  a  sunbeam  had 
been  caught  in  those  luxuriant  tresses,  and  was  striving  in  vain 
to  escape.  Her  eyes  were  of  light  hazel,  large,  deep,  and 
shaded  into  softness  (to  use  a  modern  expression)  by  long  and 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          157 

very  dark  lashes.  Her  complexion  alone  would  have  rendered 
her  beautiful,  it  was  so  clear — so  pure  ;  the  blood  blushed  be- 
neath it,  like  roses  under  a  clear  stream  ;  if,  in  order  to  justify 
my  simile,  roses  would  have  the  complacency  to  grow  in  such 
a  situation.  Her  nose  was  of  that  fine  and  accurate  mould 
that  one  so  seldom  sees,  except  in  the  Grecian  statues,  which 
unites  the  clearest  and  most  decided  outline  with  the  most 
feminine  delicacy  and  softness  :  and  the  short,  curved  arch, 
which  descended  from  thence  to  her  mouth,  was  so  fine — so 
tf/V/Tyand  exquisitely  formed,  that  it  seemed  as  if  Love  himself 
had  modelled  the  bridge  which  led  to  his  most  beautiful  and 
fragrant  island.  On  the  right  side  of  the  mouth  was  one 
dimple,  which  corresponded  so  exactly  with  every  smile  and 
movement  of  those  rosy  lips,  that  you  might  have  sworn  the 
shadow  of  each  passed  there  ;  it  was  like  the  rapid  changes  of 
an  April  heaven  reflected  upon  a  valley.  She  was  somewhat, 
but  not  much,  taller  than  the  ordinary  height ;  and  her  figure, 
which  united  all  the  first  freshness  and  youth  of  the  girl  with 
the  more  luxuriant  graces  of  the  woman,  was  rounded  and 
finished  so  justly,  that  the  eye  could  glance  over  the  whole 
without  discovering  the  least  harshness  or  unevenness,  or  atom 
to  be  added  or  subtracted.  But  over  all  these  was  a  light,  a 
glow,  a  pervading  spirit,  of  which  it  is  impossible  to  convey 
the  faintest  idea.  You  should  have  seen  her  by  the  side  of  a 
shaded  fountain  on  a  summer's  day.  You  should  have  watched 
her  amidst  music  and  flowers,  and  she  might  have  seemed  to 
you  like  the  fairy  that  presided  over  both.  So  much  for 
poetical  description — it  is  not  my  forte  ! 
"  What  think  you  of  her,  Vincent  ?  "  said  I. 
"I  say,  with  Theocritus,  in  his  epithalamium  of  Helen — " 
"Say  no  such  thing,"  said  I ;  "  I  will  not  have  her  presence 
profaned  by  any  helps  from  your  memory." 

At  that  moment  the  girl  turned  round  abruptly,  and  re- 
entered  the  stationer's  shop,  at  the  door  of  which  she  had  been 
standing. 

"  Let  us  enter,"  said  Vincent ;  "I  want  some  sealing-wax." 
I  desired  no  second  invitation  :  we  marched  into  the  shop. 
My  Armida  was  leaning  on  the  arm  of  an  old  lady.  She 
blushed  deeply  when  she  saw  us  enter ;  and,  as  ill-luck  would 
have  it,  the  old  lady  concluded  her  purchases  the  moment 
after,  and  they  withdrew. 

"  '  Who  had  thought  this  clime  had  held 
A  deity  so  unparallel'd  ! '  " 

justly  observed  my  companion. 


158  PELHAM  ; 

I  made  no  reply.  All  the  remainder  ot  that  day  I  was  ao- 
sent  and  reserved  ;  and  Vincent,  perceiving  that  I  no  longer 
laughed  at  his  jokes  nor  smiled  at  his  quotations,  told  me  I 
was  sadly  changed  for  the  worse,  and  pretended  an  engagement, 
to  rid  himself  of  an  auditor  so  obtuse. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

"  Tout  notre  mal  vient  de  ne  pouvoir  etre  seuls  ;  de  14  le  jeu,  le  luxe,  la 
dissipation,  le  vin,  les  femmes,  1'ignorance,  la  medisance,  1'envie,  1'oubli  de 
soi-meme  et  de  Dieu." — LA  BRUYERE. 

THE  next  day  I  resolved  to  call  upon  Tyrrell,  seeing  that  he 
had  not  yet  kept  his  promise  of  anticipating  me,  and  being 
very  desirous  not  to  lose  any  opportunity  of  improving  my  ac- 
quaintance with  him  ;  accordingly,  I  sent  my  valet  to  make 
inquiries  as  to  his  abode.  I  found  that  he  lodged  in  the  same 
hotel  as  myself  ;  and,  having  previously  ascertained  that  he 
was  at  home,  I  was  ushered  by  the  head  waiter  into  the  game- 
ster's apartment. 

He  was  sitting  by  the  fire  in  a  listless,  yet  thoughtful  attitude. 
His  muscular  and  rather  handsome  person  was  indued  in  a 
dressing-gown  of  rich  brocade,  thrown  on  with  a  slovenly  non- 
chalance. His  stockings  were  about  his  heels,  his  hair  was  di- 
sheveled, and  the  light,  streaming  through  the  half-drawn  win- 
dow curtains,  rested  upon  the  gray  flakes  with  which  its  darker 
luxuriance  was  interspersed  ;  and  the  cross  light  in  which  he 
had  the  imprudence  or  misfortune  to  sit  fully  developed  the 
deep  wrinkles  which  years  and  dissipation  had  planted  round 
his  eyes  and  mouth.  I  was  quite  startled  at  the  oldness  and 
haggardness  of  his  appearance. 

He  rose  gracefully  enough  when  I  was  announced  ;  and  no 
sooner  had  the  waiter  retired  than  he  came  up  to  me,  shook 
me  warmly  by  the  hand,  and  said,  "  Let  me  thank  you  now 
for  the  attention  you  formerly  showed  me,  when  I  was  less  able 
to  express  my  acknowledgments.  I  shall  be  proud  to  cultivate 
your  intimacy." 

I  answered  him  in  the  same  strain,  and  in  the  course  of  con- 
versation made  myself  so  entertaining,  that  he  agreed  to  spend 
the  remainder  of  the  day  with  me.  We  ordered  our  horses  at 
three,  and  our  dinner  at  seven,  and  I  left  him  till  the  former 
were  ready,  in  order  to  allow  him  time  for  his  toilet. 

During  our  ride  we  talked  principally  on  general  subjects,  on 


OR,  ADVENTURES   OF    A    GENTLEMAN.  159 

the  various  differences  of  France  and  England,  on  horses, 
on  wines,  on  women,  on  politics — on  all  things  except  that 
which  had  created  our  acquaintance.  His  remarks  were 
those  of  a  strong,  ill-regulated  mind,  which  had  made  experi- 
ence supply  the  place  of  the  reasoning  faculties  ;  there  was  a 
looseness  in  his  sentiments,  and  a  licentiousness  in  his  opinions, 
which  startled  even  me  (used  as  I  had  been  to  rakes  of  all 
schools);  his  philosophy  was  of  that  species  which  thinks  that 
the  best  maxim  of  wisdom  is — to  despise.  Of  men  he  spoke 
with  the  bitterness  of  hatred ;  of  women,  with  the  levity  of 
contempt.  France  had  taught  him  its  debaucheries,  but  not 
the  elegance  which  refines  them  :  if  his  sentiments  were  low, 
the  language  in  which  they  were  clothed  was  meaner  still :  and 
that  which  makes  the  morality  of  the  upper  classes,  and  which 
no  criminal  is  supposed  to  be  hardy  enough  to  reject ;  that  re- 
ligion which  has  no  scoffers,  that  code  which  has  no  impugn- 
ers,  that  honor  among  gentlemen  which  constitutes  the  mov- 
ing principle  of  the  society  in  which  they  live,  he  seemed  to 
imagine,  even  in  its  most  fundamental  laws,  was  an  authority 
to  which  nothing  but  the  inexperience  of  the  young  and  the 
credulity  of  the  romantic  could  accede. 

Upon  the  whole,  he  seemed  to  me  a  "bold,  bad  man,"  with 
just  enough  of  intellect  to  teach  him  to  be  a  villain,  without 
that  higher  degree  which  shows  him  that  it  is  the  worst  course 
for  his  interest ;  and  just  enough  of  daring  to  make  him  indif- 
ferent to  the  dangers  of  guilt,  though  it  was  not  sufficient  to 
make  him  conquer  and  control  them.  For  the  rest,  he  loved 
trotting  better  than  cantering ;  piqued  himself  upon  being 
manly;  wore  doeskin  gloves  ;  drank  port  wine,  par  preference^ 
and  considered  beefsteaks  and  oyster-sauce  as  the  most  deli- 
cate dish  in  the  bill  of  fare.  I  think,  now,  reader,  you  have  a 
tolerably  good  view  of  his  character. 

After  dinner,  when  we  were  discussing  the  second  bottle,  I 
thought  it  would  not  be  a  bad  opportunity  to  question  him 
upon  his  acquaintance  with  Glanville.  His  countenance  fell 
directly  I  mentioned  that  name.  However,  he  rallied  himself. 
"  Oh,"  said  he,  "  you  mean  the  soi-disant  Warburton.  I  knew 
him  some  years  back — he  was  a  poor  silly  youth,  half-mad,  I 
believe,  and  particularly  hostile  to  me,  owing  to  some  foolish 
disagreement  when  he  was  quite  a  boy." 

"  What  was  the  cause  ?  "  said  I. 

"Nothing — nothing  of  any  consequence,"  answered  Tyrrell ; 
and  then  added,  with  an  air  of  coxcombry  :  "  I  believe  I  was 
more  fortunate  than  he  in  a  certain  intrigue.  Poor  Glanville 


PELHAM 


is  a  little  romantic,  you  know.     But  enough  of  this  now  :  shall 
we  go  to  the  rooms  ?  " 

"  With  pleasure,"  said  I,  and  to  the  rooms  we  went. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

"  Veteres  revocavit  artes." — HOR. 
"  Since  I  came  hither  I  have  heard  strange  news." — King  Lear. 

Two  days  after  my  long  conversation  with  Tyrrell  I  called 
again  upon  that  worthy.  To  my. great  surprise  he  had  left 
Cheltenham.  I  then  strolled  to  Vincent ;  I  found  him  lolling 
on  his  sofa,  surrounded,  as  usual,  with  books  and  papers. 

"  Come  in,  Pelham,"  said  he,  as  I  hesitated  at  the  threshold  ; 
"  come  in.  I  have  been  delighting  myself  with  Plato  all  the 
morning ;  I  scarcely  know  what  it  is  that  enchants  us  so  much 
with  the  ancients.  I  rather  believe,  with  Schlegel,  that  it  is 
that  air  of  perfect  repose — the  stillness  of  a  deep  soul — which 
rests  over  their  writings.  Whatever  would  appear  cominon- 
place  amongst  us  has  with  them  I  know  not  what  of  sublimity 
and  pathos.  Triteness  seems  the  profundity  of  truth  ;  wild- 
ness,  the  daring  of  a  luxuriant  imagination.  The  fact  is,  that, 
in  spite  of  every  fault,  you  see,  through  all,  the  traces  of  origi- 
nal thought  ;  there  is  a  contemplative  grandeur  in  their  senti- 
ments which  seems  to  have  nothing  borrowed  in  its  meaning 
or  its  dress.  Take,  for  instance,  this  fragment  of  Mimnermus, 
on  the  shortness  of  life, — what  subject  can  seem  more  tame  ? 
What  less  striking  than  the  feelings  he  expresses  ?  And  yet, 
throughout  every  line,  there  is  a  melancholy  depth  and  tender- 
ness which  it  is  impossible  to  define.  Of  all  English  writers 
who  partake  the  most  of  this  spirit  of  conveying  interest-aiwL 
strength  to  sentiments  and  subjects  neither  novel  in  themselves|j 
nor  adorned  in  their  arrangement,  I  know  none  that  equal 
Byron:  it  is  indeed  the  chief  beauty  of  that  extraordinary  poet. 
Examine  "  Childe  Harold  "  accurately,  and  you  will  be  sur- 
prised to  discover  how  very  little  of  real  depth  or  novelty  there 
often  is  in  the  reflections  which  seem  most  deep  and  new. 
You  are  enchained  by  the  vague  but  powerful  beauty  of  the 
style  ;  the  strong  impress  of  originality  which  breathes  through- 
out. Like  the  oracle  of  Dodona,  he  makes  the  forests  his  tab- 
lets, and  writes  his  inspirations  upon  the  leaves  of  the  trees  ; 
but  the  source  of  that  inspiration  you  cannot  tell ;  it  is  neither 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         l6l 

the  truth  nor  the  beauty  of  his  sayings  which  you  admire, 
though  you  fancy  that  it  is  :  it  is  the  mystery  which  accompa- 
nies them." 

"  Pray,"  said  I,  "  do  you  not  imagine  that  one  great  cause  of 
this  spirit  of  which  you  speak,  and  which  seems  to  be  nothing 
more  than  a  thoughtful  method  of  expressing  all  things,  even 
to  trifles,  was  the  great  loneliness  to  which  the  ancient  poets 
and  philosophers  were  attached?  I  think  (though  I  have  not 
your  talent  for  quoting)  that  Cicero  calls  '  the  consideration  of 
nature  the  food  of  the  mind,'  and  the  mind  which,  in  solitude, 
is  confined  necessarily  to  a  few  objects,  meditates  more  closely 
upon  those  it  embraces  :  the  habit  of  this  meditation  enters 
and  pervades  the  system,  and  whatever  afterwards  emanates 
from  it  is  tinctured  with  the  thoughtful  and  contemplative 
colors  it  has  received." 

"  Wonderful  !  "  cried  Vincent :  "  How  long  have  you  learnt 
to  read  Cicero,  and  talk  about  the  mind?" 

"Ah,"  said  I,  "I  am  perhaps  less  ignorant  than  I  affect  to 
be  ;  it  is  'itvw  my  object  to  be  a  dandy ;  hereafter  I  may  aspire 
to  ^^'an  orator,  a  wit,  a  scholar,  or  a  Vincent.  You  will  see 
then  that  there  have  been  many  odd  quarters  of  an  hour  in  my 
life  less  unprofitably  wasted  than  you  imagine." 

Vincent  rose  in  a  sort  of  nervous  excitement,  and  then  re- 
seating himself,  fixed  his  dark,  bright  eyes  steadfastly  upon  me 
for  some  moments  ;  his  countenance  all  the  while  assuming  a 
higher  and  graver  expression  than  I  had  ever  before  seen  it 
wear. 

"  Pelham,"  said  he,  at  last,  "  it  is  for  the  sake  of  moments 
like  these,  when  your  better  nature  flashes  out,  that  I  have 
sought  your  society  and  your  friendship.  /,  too,  am  not  wholly 
(whaV' I  appear:  the  world  may  yet  see  that  Halifax  was  not 
Hfte  only  statesman  whom  the  pursuits  of  literature  had  only 
formed  the  better  for  the  labors  of  business.  Meanwhile,  let 
rpe  pass  for  the  pedant,  and  the  bookworm  :  like  a  sturdier 
adventurer  than  myself,  'I  bide  my  time.'  Pelham — this  will 
be  a  busy  session  !  Shall  you  prepare  for  it  ? " 

"Nay,"  answered  I,  relapsing  into  my  usual  tone  of  languid 
affectation  ;  "  I  shall  have  too  much  to  do  in  attending  to 
Stultz,  and  Nugee,  and  Tattersall,  and  Baxter,  and  a  hundred 
other  occupiers  of  spare  time.  Remember,  this  is  my  first 
season  in  London  since  my  majority." 

Vincent  took  up  the  newspaper  with  evident  chagrin  ;  how- 
ever he  was  too  theoretically  the  man  of  the  world  long  to 
show  his  displeasure.  "Parr — Parr — again,"  said  he;  "how 


l62  PELHAM  J 

they  stuff  the  journals  with  that  name.  Heaven  knows,  I  ven- 
erate learning  as  much  as  any  man  ;  but  I  respect  it  for  its 
uses,  and  not  for  itself.  However,  I  will  not  quarrel  with  his 
reputation — it  is  but  for  a  day.  Literary  men  who  leave  noth- 
ing but  their  name  to  posterity  have  but  a  short  twilight  of 
posthumous  renown.  Apropos,  do  you  know  my  pun  upon 
Parr  and  the  Major?" 

"  Not  I,"  said  J,  "  Majora  canamus  !  " 

"  Why,  Parr  and  I,  and  two  or  three  more,  were  dining  once 

at  poor  T.  M 's,  the  author  of  '  The  Indian  Antiquities.' 

Major ,  a  great  traveller,  entered  into  a  dispute  with  Parr 

about  Babylon  ;  the  Doctor  got  into  a  violent  passion,  and 
poured  out  such  a  heap  of  quotations  on  his  unfortunate  antag- 
onist that  the  latter,  stunned  by  the  clamor  and  terrified  by  the 
Greek,  was  obliged  to  succumb.  Parr  turned  triumphantly  to 
me  :  '  What  is  your  opinion,  my  lord,'  said  he  ;  '  who  is  in 
the  right  ?  ' 

"  'Adversis  MAJOR — PAR  secundis?  answered  I." 

"  Vincent,"  I  said,  after  I  had  expressed  sufficient  admira- 
tion at  his  pun  ;  "  Vincent,  I  begin  to  be  weary  of  this  life  ;  I 
shall  accordingly  pack  up  my  books  and  myself,  and  go  to 
Malvern  Wells,  to  live  quietly  till  I  think  it  time  for  London. 
After  to-day  you  will,  therefore,  see  me  no  more." 

"  I  cannot,"  answered  Vincent,  "  contravene  so  laudable  a 
purpose,  however  I  may  be  the  loser."  And,  after  a  short  and 
desultory  conversation,  I  left  him  once  more  to  the  tranquil  en- 
joyment of  his  Plato.  That  evening  I  went  to  Malvern,  and 
there  I  remained  in  a  monotonous  state  of  existence,  dividing 
my  time  equally  between  my  mind  and  my  body,  and  forming 
myself  into  that  state  of  contemplative  reflection  which  was  the 
object  of  Vincent's  admiration  in  the  writings  of  the  ancients. 

Just  when  I  was  on  the  point  of  leaving  my  retreat,  I  re- 
ceived an  intelligence  which  most  materially  affected  my  future 
prospects.  My  uncle,  who  had  arrived  at  the  sober  age  of 
fifty  without  any  apparent  designs  of  matrimony,  fell  suddenly 
in  love  with  a  lady  in  his  immediate  neighborhood,  and  mar- 
ried her  after  a  courtship  of  three  weeks. 

"  I  should  not,"  said  my  poor  mother,  very  generously,  in  a 
subsequent  letter,  "  so  much  have  minded  his  marriage,  if  the 
lady  had  not  thought  proper  to  become  in  the  family  way  ;  a 
thing  which  I  do  and  always  shall  consider  a  most  unwarrant- 
able encroachment  on  your  rights." 

I  will  confess  that,  on  first  hearing  this  news,  I  experienced 
a  bitter  pang  :  but  I  reasoned  it  away.  I  was  already  under 


OR,  ADVENTUkES   OF    A    GENTLEMAN.  163 

great  obligations  to  my  uncle,  and  I  felt  it  a  very  unjust  and 
ungracious  assumption  on  my  part  to  affect  anger  at  conduct  I 
had  no  right  to  question,  or  mortification  at  the  loss  of  pretensions 
I  had  so  equivocal  a  privilege  to  form.  A  man  of  fifty  has,pfr- 
haps,  a  right  to  consult  his  own  happiness,  almost  as  much  as  a 
man  of  thirty  ;  and  if  he  attracts  by  his  choice  the  ridicule  of 
those  whom  he  has  never  obliged,  it  is  at  least  from  those  persons 
he  has  obliged  that  he  is  to  look  for  countenance  and  defence. 

Fraught  with  these  ideas,  I  wrote  to  my  uncle  a  sincere  and 
warm  letter  of  congratulation.  His  answer  was,  like  himself, 
kind,  affectionate,  and  generous  ;  it  informed  me  that  he  had 
already  made  over  to  me  the  annual  sum  of  one  thousand 
pounds  ;  and  that  in  case  of  his  having  a  lineal  heir,  he  had, 
moreover,  settled  upon  me,  after  his  death,  two  thousand  a 
year.  He  ended  by  assuring  me  that  his  only  regret  at  marry- 
ing a  lady  who,  in  all  respects,  was,  above  all  women,  calculat- 
ed to  make  him  happy,  was  his  unfeigned  reluctance  to  de- 
prive me  of  a  station  which  (he  was  pleased  to  say)  I  not  only 
deserved,  but  should  adorn. 

Upon  receiving  this  letter  I  was  sensibly  affected  with  my 
uncle's  kindness  ;  and,  so  far  from  repining  at  his  choice,  I 
most  heartily  wished  him  every  blessing  it  could  afford  him, 
even  though  an  heir  to  the  titles  of  Glenmorris  were  one  of 
them. 

I  protracted  my  stay  at  Malvern  some  weeks  longer  than  I 
had  intended  :  the  circumstance  which  had  wrought  so  great  a 
change  in  my  fortune,  wrought  no  less  powerfully  on  my  char- 
acter. I  became  more  thoughtfully  and  solidly  ambitious. 
Instead  of  wasting  my  time  in  idle  regrets  at  the  station  I  had 
lost,  I  rather  resolved  to  carve  out  for  myself  one  still  lofty  and 
more  universally  acknowledged.  I  determined  to  exercise,  to 
their  utmost,  the  litile  ability  and  knowledge  I  possessed  ;  and 
while  the  increase  of  income,  derived  from  my  uncle's  gener- 
osity, furnished  me  with  what  was  necessary  for  my  luxury,  I 
was  resolved  that  it  should  not  encourage  me  in  the  indulgence 
of  my  indolence. 

In  this  mood,  and  with  these  intentions,  I  repaired  to  the 
metropolis. 


164  PELHAM 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

"  Cumpulchris  tunicis  sumet  nova  consilia  et  spes." — HoR. 

"  And  look  always  that  they  be  shape, 
What  garment  that  thou  shalt  make 
Of  him  that  can  best  do 
With  all  that  pertaineth  thereto." — Rom.  of  the  Rose. 

How  well  I  can  remember  the  feelings  with  which  I  entered 
London,  and  took  possession  of  the  apartments  prepared  for 
me  at  Mivart's !  A  year  had  made  a  vast  alteration  in  my 
mind  ;  I  had  ceased  to  regard  pleasure  for  its  own  sake : 
I  rather  coveted  its  enjoyments,  as  the  great  sources  of  worldly 
distinction.  I  was  not  the  less  a  coxcomb  than  heretofore, 
nor  the  less  fastidious  in  my  horses  and  my  dress  ;  but 
I  viewed  these  matters  in  a  light  wholly  different  from  that  in 
which  I  had  hitherto  regarded  them.  Beneath  all  the  careless- 
ness of  my  exterior,  my  mind  was  close,  keen,  and  inquiring ; 
and  under  all  the  affectations  of  foppery,  and  the  levity  of 
manner,  I  veiled  an  ambition  the  most  extensive  in  its  objects, 
and  a  resolution  the  most  daring  in  the  accomplishment  of  its 
means. 

I  was  still  lounging  over  my  breakfast,  on  the  second  morn- 
ing of  my  arrival^  when  Mr. ,  the  tailor,  was  announced. 

"  Good-morning,  Mr.  Pelham  :  happy  to  see  you  returned. 
Do  I  disturb  you  too  early  ?  Shall  I  wait  on  you  again  ?  " 

"  No,  Mr. ,  I  am  ready  to  receive  you.  You  may  re- 
new my  measure." 

"  We  are  a  very  good  figure,  Mr.  Pelham  ;  very  good  figure," 
replied  the  Schneider,  surveying  me  from  head  to  foot,  while 
he  was  preparing  his  measure  ;  "  we  want  a  little  assistance, 
though  ;  we  must  be  padded  well  here,  we  must  have  our  chest 
thrown  out,  and  have  an  additional  inch  across  the  shoulders  ; 
we  must  live  for  effect  in  this  world,  Mr.  Pelham  ;  a  leetle 
tighter  round  the  waist,  eh  ?  "  ^ 

"  Mr.  — — ,"  said  I,  "  you  will  Take,  first,  my  exact  measure, 
and,  secondly,  my  exact  instructions.  Have  you  done  the 
first?" 

"  We  are  done  now,  Mr.  Pelham,"  replied  my  man-maker,  in 
a  slow,  solemn  tone. 

"  You  will  have  the  goodness,  then,  to  put  no  stuffing  of  any 
description  in  my  coat  ;  you  will  not  pinch  me  an  iota  tighter 
across  the  waist  than  is  natural  to  that  part  of  my  body  ;  and 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          165 

you  will  please,  in  your  infinite  mercy,  to  leave  me  as  much 
after  the  fashion  in  which  God  made  me  as  you  possibly  can." 

"  But,  sir,  we  must  be  padded  ;  we  are  much  too  thin  ;  all 
the  gentlemen  in  the  Life  Guards  are  padded,  sir." 

"  Mr. ,"  answered  I,  "  you  will  please  to  speak  of  us 

with  a  separate,  and  not  a  collective,  pronoun  ;  and  you  will 
let  me  for  once  have  my  clothes  such  as  a  gentleman,  who,  I 
beg  of  you  to  understand,  is  not  a  Life  Guardsman,  can  wear 
without  being  mistaken  for  a  Guy  Fawkes  on  a  fifth  of  No- 
vember." 

Mr. looked  very  discomfited:  "We  shall  not  be  liked, 

sir,  when  we  are  made — we  shant,  I  assure  you.  I  will  call 
on  Saturday  at  eleven  o'clock.  Good-morning,  Mr.  Pelham  ; 
we  shall  never  be  done  justice  to,  if  we  do  not  live  for  effect ; 
good-morning,  Mr.  Pelham." 

And  here,  as  I  am  weary  of  tailors,  let  me  reflect  a  little 
upon  that  divine  art  of  which  they  are  the  professors.  Alas, 
for  the  instability  of  all  human  sciences!  A  few  short  months 
ago,  in  the  first  edition  of  this  memorable  work,  I  laid  down 
rules  for  costume,  the  value  of  which  Fashion  begins  already 
to  destroy.  The  thoughts  which  I  shall  now  embody  shall  be 
out  of  the  reach  of  that  great  innovator,  and  applicable  not  to 
one  ag^but  to  all.  To  the  sagacious  reader,  who  has  already 
discovered  what  portions  of  this  work  are  writ  in  irony — what 
in  earnest — I  fearlessly  commit  these  maxims  ;  beseeching 
him  to  believe,  with  Sterne,  that  "  everything  is  big  with  jest, 
and  has  wit  in  it,  and  instruction,  too — if  we  can  but  find  it  out ! 

MAXIMS. 

I. 

Do  not  require  your  dress  so  much  to  fit  as  to  adorn  you. 
Nature  is  not  to  be  copied,  but  to  be  exalted  by  art.  Apelles 
blamed  Protogenes  for  being  too  natural 

ii. 

Never  in  your  dress  altogether  desert  that  taste  which  is 
general.  The  world  considers  eccentricity  in  great  things 
genius  ;  in  small  things  folly. 

in. 

Always  remember  that  you  dress  to  fascinate  others,  not 
yourself. 

IV. 

Keep  your  rpind  free  from  all  violent  affections  at  the  hour 


J66  PELHAM  ; 

of  the  toilet.  A  philosophical  serenity  is  perfectly  necessary 
to  success.  Helvetius  says,  justly,  that  our  errors  arise  from 
our  passions. 

v. 

Remember  that  none  but  those  whose  courage  is  unques- 
tionable can  venture  to  be  effeminate.  It  was  only  in  the 
field  that  the  Spartans  were  accustomed  to  use  perfumes  and 
curl  their  hair. 

VI. 

Never  let  the  finery  of  chains  and  rings  seem  your  own 
choice  ;  that  which  naturally  belongs  to  women  should  appear 
only  worn  for  their  sake.  We  dignify  foppery  when  we  in- 
vest it  with  a  sentiment. 

VII. 

To  win  the  affection  of  your  mistress,  appear  negligent  in 
your  costume — to  preserve  it,  assiduous  ;  the  first  is  a  sign  of 
the  passion  of  love  ;  the  second,  of  its  respect. 

VIII. 

A  man  must  be  a  profound  calculator  to  be  a  consummate 
dresser.  One  must  not  dress  the  same,  whether  one  goes  to  a 
minister  or  a  mistress ;  an  avaricious  uncle,  or  an  ostentatious 
cousin  :  there  is  no  diplomacy  more  subtle  than  that  of  dress. 

IX. 

Is  the  great  man  whom  you  would  conciliate  a  coxcomb  ?— 
go  to  him  in  a  waistcoat  like  his  own.  "  Imitation,"  says  the 
author  of  Lacon.  "is  the  sincerest  flattery." 

x. 

The  handsome  may  be  showy  in  dress,  the  plain  should 
study  to  be  unexceptionable ;  just  as  in  great  men  we  look  for 
something  to  admire — in  ordinary  men  we  ask  for  nothing  to 
forgive. 

XI. 

There  is  a  study  of  dress  for  the  aged,  as  well  as  for  the 
young.  Inattention  is  no  less  indecorous  in  one  than  in  the 
other  ;  we  may  distinguish  the  taste  appropriate  to  each,  by 
the  reflection  that  youth  is  made  to  be  loved — age  to  be  re- 
spected. 

XII. 

A  fool  may  dress  gaudily,  but  a  fool  cannot  dress  well — for 
to  dress  well  requires  judgment;  and  Rochefoucauld  says  with 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          167 

truth,  "  On  est  quelquefois  un  sot  avec  de  resprit,  mat's  on  ne  I'est 
jamais  avec  dujugcment." 

XIII. 

There  may  be  more  pathos  in  the  fall  of  a  collar,  or  the 
curl  of  a  lock,  than  the  shallow  think  for.  Should  we  be  so 
apt  as  we  are  now  to  compassionate  the  misfortunes,  and  to 
forgive  the  insincerity  of  Charles  I.,  if  his  pictures  had  por- 
trayed him  in  a  bob-wig  and  a  pigtail?  Vandyke  was  a 
greater  sophist  than  Hume. 

XIV. 

The  most  graceful  principle  of  dress  is  neatness — the  most 
vulgar  is  preciseness. 


Dress   contains   the    two   codes   of    morality — private   and 
public.     Attention   is  the  duty  we  owe  to  others — cleanliness 
that  which  we  owe  to  ourselves. 
oJ  hn   XVI 

T-N  iU      i.       'I.  U  -J         r  "tin.      a.  11 

Dress  so  that  it  may  never  be  said  of  you,  What  a  well- 
dressed  man  !  " — but,  "What  a  gentlemanlike  man  !  " 

xvn. 

Avoid  many  colors ;  and  seek,  by  some  one  prevalent  and 
quiet  tint,  to  sober  down  the  others.  Apelles  used  only  four 
colors,  and  always  subdued  those  which  were  more  florid,  by 
a  darkening  varnish. 

XVIII. 

Nothing  is  superficial  to  a  deep  observer !  It  is  in  trifles 
that  the  mind  betrays  itself.  "  In  what  part  of  that  letter," 
said  a  king  to  the  wisest  of  living  diplomatists,  "did  you  dis- 
cover irresolution?" — "In  its  ns  andgsf"  was  the  answer. 

XIX. 

A  very  benevolent  man  will  never  shock  the  feelings  of 
others,  by  an  excess  either  of  inattention  or  display  ;  you  may 
doubt,  therefore,  the  philanthropy  both  of  a  sloven  and  a  fop. 

YV 

.    A  A  . 

There  is  an  indifference  to  please  in  a  stocking  down  at 
heel— but  there  may  be  malevolence  in  a  diamond  ring. 

XXI. 

Inventions  in  dressing  should  resemble  Addison's  definition 
of  fine  writing,  and  consist  of  "refinements  which  are  natural, 
without  being  obvious." 


168  PELHAM  ; 

XXII. 

He  who  esteems  trifles  for  themselves,  is  a  trifler  ;  he  who 
esteems  them  for  the  conclusions  to  be  drawn  from  them,  or 
the  advantage  to  which  they  can  be  put,  is  a  philosopher. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

"  Tantof,  Monseigneur  le  Marquis  a  cheval — 
Tantot,  Monsieur  du  Mazin  de  bout  !  " 

— L'Art'de  se  Promtner  a  Cheval. 

MY  cabriolet  was  at  the  door,  and  I  was  preparing  to  enter, 
when  I  saw  a  groom  managing,  with  difficulty,  a  remarkably 
fine  and  spirited  horse.  As,  at  that  time,  I  was  chiefly  occupied 
Avith  the  desire  of  making  as  perfect  a  stud  as  my  fortune  would 
allow,  I  sent  my  cab  boy  (vulgb  Tiger)  to  inquire  of  the  groom 
whether  the  horse  was  to  be  sold,  and  to  whom  it  belonged. 

"  It  was  not  to  be  disposed  of,"  was  the  answer,  "  and  it  be- 
longed to  Sir  Reginald  Glanville." 

The  name  thrilled  through  me ;  I  drove  after  the  groom, 
and  inquired  Sir  Reginald  Glanville's  address.  His  house,  the 
groom  informed  me,  was  at  No.  —  Pall  Mall.  I  resolved  to 
call  that  day,  but,  as  the  groom  said  he  was  rarely  at  home  till 
late  in  the  afternoon,  I  drove  first  to  Lady  Roseville's  to  talk 
about  Almack's  and  the  beau  monde,  and  be  initiated  into  the 
newest  scandal  and  satire  of  the  day. 

Lady  Roseville  was  at  home ;  I  found  the  room  half  full  of 
women:  the  beautiful  Countess  was  one  of  the  few  persons 
extant  who  admit  people  of  a  morning.  She  received  me  with 

marked  kindness.  Seeing  that ,  who  was  esteemed,  among 

his  friends,  the  handsomest  man  of  the  day,  had  risen  from  his 
seat  next  to  Lady  Roseville,  in  order  to  make  room  for  me, 
I  negligently  and  quietly  dropped  into  it,  and  answered 
his  grave  and  angry  stare  at  my  presumption  with  my  very 
sweetest  and  most  condescending  smile.  Heaven  be  praised, 
the  handsomest  man  of  the  day  is  never  the  chief  object  in  the 
room,  when  Henry  Pelham  and  his  guardian  angel,  termed  by 
his  enemies  his  self-esteem,  once  enter  it. 

I  rattled  on  through  a  variety  of  subjects,  till  Lady  Roseville 
at  last  said,  laughingly:  "I  see,  Mr.  Pelham,  that  you  have 
learned,  at  least,  the  art  of  making  the  frais  of  the  conversa- 
tion since  your  visit  to  Paris." 

"  I  understand  you,"  answered  I;  "you  mean  that    I  talk 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          169 

too  much  ;  it  is  true — I  own  the  offence — nothing  is  so  un- 
popular !  Even  I.  the  civillest,  best-natured,  most  unaffected 
person  in  all  Europe,  am  almost  disliked,  positively  disliked, 
for  that  sole  and  simple  crime.  Ah  !  the  most  beloved  man 
in  society  is  that  deaf  and  dumb  person,  comment  s'appelle -t-il ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Lady  Roseville,  "popularity  is  a  goddess  best 
worshipped  by  negatives  ;  and  the  fewer  claims  one  has  to  be 
admired,  the  more  pretensions  one  has  to  be  beloved. >: 

"  Perfectly  true,  in  general,"  said  I  ;  "for  instance,  I  make 
the  rule,  and  you  the  exception.  I,  a  perfect  paragon,  am 
hated  because  I  am  one  ;  you,  a  perfect  paragon,  are  idolized  in 
spite  of  it.  But,  tell  me,  what  literary  news  is  there  ?  I  am 
tired  of  the  trouble  of  idleness,  and,  in  order  to  enjoy  a  little 
dignified  leisure,  intend  to  set  up  as  a  savant" 

"Oh,  Lady  C is  going  to  write  a  'Commentary  on 

Ude';  and  Madame  de  Genlis  a*  Proof  of  the  Apocrypha.'  The 

Duke  of  N e  is  publishing  a  Treatise  on  'Toleration';  and 

Lord  L an  Essay  on  '  Self-knowledge.'  As  for  news  more 

remote,  I  near  that  the  Dey  of  Algiers  is  finishing  an  '  Ode  to 
Liberty,'  and  the  College  of  Caffraria  preparing  a  volume  of 
voyages  to  the  North  Pole  !  " 

"  Now,"  said  I,  "  if  I  retail  this  information  with  a  serious 
air,  I  will  lay  a  wager  that  I  find  plenty  of  believers  ;  for  fic- 
tion, uttered  solemnly,  is  much  more  like  probability  than  truth 
uttered  doubtingly  :  else  how  do  the  priests  of  Brahma  and 
Mahomet  live  ?  " 

"  Ah,  now  you  grow  too  profound,  Mr.  Pelham  !  " 

"  Cest  vrai—  but — " 

"  Tell  me,"  interrupted  Lady  Roseville,  "  how  it  happens 
that  you,  who  talk  eruditely  enough  upon  matters  of  erudition, 
should  talk  so  lightly  upon  matters  of  levity  ?  " 

"Why,"  said  I,  rising  to  depart,  "very  great  minds  are  apt 
to  think  that  all  which  they  set  any  value  upon,  is  of  equal  im- 
portance. Thus  Hesiod,  who,  you  know,  was  a  capital  poet, 
though  rather  an  imitator  of  Shenstone,  tells  us  that  God  be- 
stowed valor  on  some  men,  and  on  others  a  genius  for  dancing. 
It  was  reserved  for  me,  Lady  Roseville,  to  unite  the  two  perfec- 
tions. Adieu  !  " 

"  Thus,"  said  I,  when  I  was  once  more  alone — "  thus  do  we 
'play  the  fools  with  the  time,"  until  Fate  brings  that  which  is 
better  than  folly  ;  and,  standing  idly  upon  the  seashore,  till  we 
can  catch  the  favoring  wind  which  is  to  waft  the  vessel  of  our 
destiny  to  enterprise  and  fortune,  amuse  ourselves  with  the 
weeds  and  the  pebbles  which  are  within  our  reach  !  " 


170  PELHAM 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 

''  There  was  a  youth  who,  as  with  toil  and  travel, 
Had  grown  quite  weak  and  gray  before  his  time  : 
Nor  any  could  the  res'less  grief  unravel 
Which  burned  within  him.  withering  up  his  prime, 
And  goading  him,  like  fiends,  from  land  to  land." 

— P.  B.  SHELLEY. 

FROM  Lady  Roseville's  I  went  to  Glanville's  house.  He 
was  at  home.  I  was  ushered  into  a  beautiful  apartment,  hung 
with  rich  damask,  and  interspersed  with  a  profusion  of  mirrors. 
Beyond,  to  the  right  of  this  room,  was  a  small  closet,  fitted  up 
with  books.  This  room,  evidently  a  favorite  retreat,  was 
adorned  at  close  intervals  with  girandoles  of  silver  and  mother 
of  pearl ;  the  handles  of  the  doors  were  of  the  same  material. 

This  closet  opened  upon  a  spacious  and  lofty  saloon,  the 
walls  of  which  were  covered  with  the  masterpieces  of  Flemish 
and  Italian  art.  Through  this  apartment  I  was  led,  by  the 
obsequious  and  bowing  valet,  into  a  fourth  room,  in  which, 
negligently  robed  in  his  dressing-gown,  sate  Reginald  Glan- 
ville  :  "Good  Heavens,"  thought  I,  as  I  approached  him,  "can 
this  be  the  man  who  made  his  residence,  by  choice,  in  a  miser- 
able hovel,  exposed  to  all  the  damps,  winds,  and  vapors  that 
the  prolific  generosity  of  an  English  heaven  ever  begot  ?" 

Our  meeting  was  cordial  in  the  extreme.  Glanville,  though 
still  pale  and  thin,  appeared  in  much  better  health  than  I  had 
yet  seen  him  since  our  boyhood.  He  was,  or  affected  to  be,  in 
the  most  joyous  spirits  :  and  when  his  blue  eye  lighted  up,  in 
answer  to  the  merriment  of  his  lips,  and  his  noble  and  glorious 
cast  of  countenance  shone  out,  as  if  it  had  never  been  clouded 
by  grief  or  passion,  I  thought,  as  I  looked  at  him,  that  I  had 
never  seen  so  perfect  a  specimen  of  masculine  beauty,  at  once 
physical  and  intellectual. 

"  My  dear  Pelham,"  said  Glanville,  "let  us  see  a  great  deal 
of  each  other :  I  live  very  much  alone:  I  have  an  excellent 
cook  sent  me  over  from  France  by  the  celebrated  gourmand 

Marechalde .  I  dine  every  day  exactly  at  eight,  and  never 

accept  an  invitation  to  dine  elsewhere.  My  table  is  always 
laid  for  three,  and  you  will,  therefore,  be  sure  of  finding  a 
dinner  here  every  day  you  have  no  better  engagement.  What 
think  you  of  my  taste  in  pictures?" 

"  I  have  only  to  say,"  answered  I,  "that  since  I  am  so  often 
to  dine  with  you,  I  hope  your  taste  in  wines  will  be  one-half  as 
good." 


OR,  ADVENTURES   OF    A    GENTLEMAtf.  iyi 

"We  are  all,"  said  Glanville,  with  a  faint  smile  ;  "we  are 
all,  in  the  words  of  the  true  old  proverb,  'children  of  a  larger 
growth.'  Our  first  toy  is  love  ;  our  second,  display,  according 
as  our  ambition  prompts  us  to  exert  it.  Some  place  it  in  horses, 
some  in  honors,  some  in  feasts,  and  some — void  un  exemple — in 
furniture  or  pictures.  So  true  it  is,  Pelham,  that  our  earliest 
longings  are  the  purest :  in  love,  we  covet  goods  for  the  sake 
of  the  one  beloved  :  in  display,  for  our  own  :  thus,  our  first 
stratum  of  mind  produces  fruit  for  others  ;  our  second  becomes 
niggardly,  and  bears  only  sufficient  for  ourselves.  But  enough 
of  my  morals  ;  will  you  drive  me  out,  if  I  dress  quicker  than 
you  ever  saw  man  dress  before  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  I ;  "  for  I  make  it  a  rule  never  to  drive  out  a  badly 
dressed  friend  ;  take  time,  and  I  will  let  you  accompany  me." 

"  So  be  it,  then.  Do  you  ever  read  ?  if  so,  my  books  are 
made  to  be  opened,  and  you  may  toss  them  over  while  I  am  at 
my  toilet.  Look,  here  are  two  works,  one  of  poetry — one  on 
the  Catholic  Question,  both  dedicated  to  me.  Seymour,  my 
waistcoat.  See  what  it  is  to  furnish  a  house  differently  from 
other  people  ;  one  becomes  a  bel  esprit,  and  a  Maecenas,  imme- 
diately. Believe  me,  if  you  are  rich  enough  to  afford  it,  that 
there  is  no  passport  to  fame  like  eccentricity.  Seymour,  my 
coat.  I  am  at  your  service,  Pelham.  Believe  hereafter  that 
one  may  dress  well  in  a  short  time  !  " 

"  One  may  do  it,  but  not  two — allons  !  " 

I  observed  that  Glanville  was  dressed  in  the  deepest  mourn- 
ing, and  imagined,  from  that  circumstance  and  his  accession  to 
the  title  I  heard  applied  to  him  for  the  first  time,  that  his 
father  was  only  just  dead.  In  this  opinion  I  was  soon  unde- 
ceived. He  had  been  dead  for  some  years.  Glanville  spoke 
to  me  of  his  family:  "To  my  mother,"  said  he,  "I  am  par- 
ticularly anxious  to  introduce  you  ;  of  my  sister  I  say  nothing; 
I  expect  you  to  be  surprised  with  her.  I  love  her  more  than 
anything  on  earth  now,"  and  as  Glanville  said  this,  a  paler 
shade  passed  over  his  face. 

We  were  in  the  Park — Lady  Roseville  passed  us — we  both 
bowed  to  her  ;  as  she  returned  our  greeting,  I  was  struck  with 
the  deep  and  sudden  blush  which  overspread  her  countenance. 
"That  can't  be  for  me?"  thought  I.  I  looked  towards  Glan- 
ville ;  his  countenance  had  recovered  its  serenity,  and  was  set- 
tled into  its  usual  proud,  but  not  displeasing,  calmness  of  ex- 
pression. 

"  Do  you  know  Lady  Roseville  well?"  said  I. 

"Very,"  answered  Glanville  laconically,  and  changed  the 


1?2  J-ELHAM  * 

conversation.  As  we  were  leaving  the  Park,  through  Cumber- 
land Gate,  we  were  stopped  by  a  blockade  of  carriages ;  a 
voice,  loud,  harsh,  and  vulgarly  accented,  called  out  to  Glan- 
ville  by  his  name.  I  turned,  and  saw  Thornton. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  Pelham,  drive  on,"  cried  Glanville  ; 
"let  me,  for  once,  escape  that  atrocious  plebeian." 

Thornton  was  crossing  the  road  towards  us  ;  I  waved  my 
hand  to  him  civilly  enough  (for  I  never  cut  anybody),  and 
drove  rapidly  through  the  other  gate,  without  appearing  to 
notice  his  design  of  speaking  to  us. 

"  Thank  Heaven  !  "  said  Glanville,  and  sank  back  in  a  reverie, 
from  which  I  could  not  awaken  him  till  he  was  set  down  at  his 
own  door. 

When  I  returned  to  Mivart's,   I  found  a  card  from  Lord 
Dawton,  and  a  letter  from  my  mother. 
"  MY  DEAR  HENRY  (began  the  letter)  : 

"  Lord  Dawton  having  kindly  promised  to  call  upon  you, 
personally,  with  this  note,  I  cannot  resist  the  opportunity  that 
promise  affords  me  of  saying  how  desirous  I  am  that  you 
should  cultivate  his  acquaintance.  He  is,  you  know,  among 
the  most  prominent  leaders  of  the  Opposition  :  and  should  the 
Whigs,  by  any  possible  chance,  ever  come  into  power,  he  would 
have  a  great  chance  of  becoming  Prime  Minister.  I  trust, 
however,  that  you  will  not  adopt  that  side  of  the  question. 
The  Whigs  are  a  horrid  set  of  people  (politically  speaking), 
vote  for  the  Roman  Catholics,  and  never  get  into  place  ;  they 
give  very  good  dinners,  however,  and  till  you  have  decided 
upon  your  politics,  you  may  as  well  make  the  most  of  them.  I 
hope,  by  the  by,  that  you  will  see  a  great  deal  of  Lord  Vin- 
cent :  every  one  speaks  highly  of  his  talents  ;  and  only  two 
weeks  ago  he  said  publicly  that  he  thought  you  the  most 
promising  young  man,  and  the  most  naturally  clever  person,  he 
had  ever  met.  I  hope  that  you  will  be  attentive  to  your  parlia- 
mentary duties  ;  and, — oh,  Henry,  be  sure  that  you  see  Cart- 
wright,  the  dentist,  as  soon  as  possible. 

"I  intend  hastening  to  London  three  weeks  earlier  than  I 
had  intended,  in  order  to  be  useful  to  you.  I  have  written 
already  to  dear  Lady  Roseville,  begging  her  to  introduce  you  at 

Lady  C.'s,  and  Lady ;  the  only  places  worth  going  to  at 

present.     They  tell  me  there  is  a  horrid,  vulgar,  ignorant  book 

come  out  about .     As  you  ought  to  be  well  versed  in  modern 

literature,  I  hope  you  will  read  it,  and  give  me  your  opinion. 
Adieu,  my  dear  Henry ;  ever  your  affectionate  mother, 

"FRANCES  PELHAM." 


Oft,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         173 

I  was  still  at  my  solitary  dinner  when  the  following  note  was 
brought  me  from  Lady  Roseville : 

"  DEAR  MR.  PELHAM  : 

"  Lady  Frances  wishes  Lady  C to  be  made  acquainted 

with  you  ;  this  is  her  night,  and  I  therefore  enclose  you  a  card. 

As  I  dine  at House,  I  shall  have  an  opportunity  of  making 

yoMie'loge  before  your  arrival.     Yours  sincerely, 

"C.  ROSEVILLE." 

I  wonder,  thought  I,  as  I  made  my  toilet,  whether  or  not  Lady 
Roseville  is  enamoured  of  her  new  correspondent  ?  I  went  very 
early,  and  before  I  retired  my  vanity  was  undeceived.  Lady 
Roseville  was  playing  at  /carte  when  I  entered.  She  beckoned 
to  me  to  approach.  I  did.  Her  antagonist  was  Mr.  Bedford,  a 
natural  son  of  the  Duke  of  Shrewsbury,  and  one  of  the  best- 
natured  and  best-looking  dandies  about  town  ;  there  was,  of 
course,  a  great  crowd  round  the  table.  Lady  Roseville  played 
incomparably  ;  bets  were  high  in  her  favor.  Suddenly  her  coun- 
tenance changed — her  hand  trembled — her  presence  of  mind 
forsook  her.  She  lost  the  game.  I  looked  up  and  saw  just 
opposite  to  her,  but  apparently  quite  careless  and  unmoved,  Re- 
ginald Glanville.  We  had  only  time  to  exchange  nods,  for  Lady 
Roseville  rose  from  the  table,  took  my  arm,  and  walked  to  the 
other  end  of  the  room,  in  order  to  introduce  me  to  my  hostess. 

I  spoke  to  her  a  few  words,  but  she  was  absent  and  inatten- 
tive ;  my  penetration  required  no  farther  proof  to  convince  me 
that  she  was  not  wholly  insensible  to  the  attractions  of  Glan- 
ville. Lady was  as  civil  and  silly  as  the  generality  of  Lady 

Blanks  are  :  and  feeling  very  much  bored,  I  soon  retired  to  an 
obscurer  corner  of  the  room.  Here  Glanville  joined  me. 

"It  is  but  seldom,"  said  he,  "that  I  come  to  these  places  ; 
to-night  my  sister  persuaded  me  to  venture  forth. 

"Is  she  here  ?  "  said  I. 

"She  is,"  answered  he  ;  "she  has  just  gone  into  the  refresh- 
ment room  with  my  mother  ;  and  when  she  returns,  I  will  in- 
troduce you." 

While  Glanville  was  yet  speaking,  three  middle-aged  ladies, 
who  had  been  talking  together  with  great  vehemence  for  the  last 
ten  minutes,  approached  us. 

"Which  is  he?  Which  is  he?"  said  two  of  them,  in  no  in- 
audible accents. 

"  This,"  replied  the  third  ;  and  coming  up  to  Glanville,  she 
addressed  him,  to  my  great  astonishment,  in  terms  of  the  most 
hyperbolical  panegyric. 


1?4  PELHAM  ; 

"  Your  work  is  wonderful  !     Wonderful !  "  said  she. 

"  Oh  !  quite — quite  !  "  echoed  the  other  two. 

"I  can't  say,"  recommenced  the  Coryphaa,  "  that  I  like  the 
moral — at  least  not  quite  ;  no,  not  quite." 

"  Not  quite,"  repeated  her  coadjutrices. 

Glanville  drew  himself  up  with  his  most  stately  air,  and 
after  three  profound  bows,  accompanied  by  a  smile  of  the 
most  unequivocal  contempt,  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  walked 
away. 

"  Did  Your  Grace  ever  see  such  a  bear  ?  "  said  one  of  the 
echoes. 

"  Never,"  said  the  duchess,  with  a  mortified  air  ;  "  but  I  will 
have  him  yet.  How  handsome  he  is  for  an  author  ! " 

I  was  descending  the  stairs  in  the  last  state  of  ennui,  when 
Glanville  laid  his  hand  on  my  shoulder. 

"  Shall  I  take  you  home  ?"  said  he  :  "my  carriage  has  just 

drrn  up-"  'iL        •  ,   ffi    • 

I  was  too  glad  to  answer  m  the  affirmative. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  an  author  ? "  said  I,  when  we 
were  seated  in  Glanville's  carriage. 

"  Not  many  days,"  he  replied.  "  I  have  tried  one  resource 
after  another — all — all  in  vain.  Oh,  God  !  that  for  me  there 
could  exist  such  a  blessing  &s  fiction!  Must  I  be  ever  the  mar- 
tyr of  one  burning,  lasting,  indelible  truth  ! 

Glanville  uttered  these  words  with  a  peculiar  wildness  and 
energy  of  tone  :  he  then  paused  abruptly  for  a  minute,  and 
continued,  with  an  altered  voice  : 

"  Never,  my  dear  Pelham,  be  tempted  by  any  inducement 
into  the  pleasing  errors  of  print  ;  from  that  moment  you  are 
public  property  ;  and  the  last  monster  at  Exeter  'Change  has 
more  liberty  than  you  ;  but  here  we  are  at  Mivart's.  Adieu — 
I  will  call  on  you  to-morrow,  if  my  wretched  state  of  health 
will  allow  me." 

And  with  these  words  we  parted. 

CHAPTER  XLVII 


"  Ambition  is  a  lottery,  where,  however  uneven  the'chances,  there  are  some 
prizes  ;  but  in  dissipation,  every  one  draws  a  blank." — Letters  of  STEPHEN 
MONTAGUE. 

THE  season  was  not  far  advanced  before  I  grew  heartily  tired 
pf  what  are  nicknamed  its  gayeties  ;  I  shrank,  by  rapid  degrees, 


OR,  ADVENTURES   OF    A    GENTLEMAfcf.  l7fj 

into  a  very  small  orbit,  from  which  I  rarely  moved.  I  had  al- 
ready established  a  certain  reputation  for  eccentricity,  fashion, 
and,  to  my  great  astonishment,  also  for  talent  ;  and  my  pride 
was  satisfied  with  finding  myself  universally  run  after,  whilst  I 
indulged  my  inclinations  by  rendering  myself  universally  scarce. 
I  saw  much  of  Vincent,  whose  varied  acquirements  and  great 
talents  become  more  and  more  perceptible,  both  as  my  own  ac- 
quaintance with  him  increased,  and  as  the  political  events  with 
which  that  year  was  pregnant  called  forth  their  exertion  and 
display.  I  went  occasionally  to  Lady  Roseville's,  and  was  al- 
ways treated  rather  as  a  long-known  friend,  than  an  ordinary 
acquaintance  ;  nor  did  I  undervalue  this  distinction,  for  it  was 
part  of  her  pride  to  render  her  house  not  only  as  splendid,  but 
as  agreeable,  as  her  command  over  society  enabled  her  to  effect. 

At  the  House  of  Commons  my  visits  would  have  been  duly 
paid,  but  for  one  trifling  occurrence,  upon  which,  as  it  is  a  very 
sore  subject,  I  shall  dwell  as  briefly  as  possible.  I  had  scarcely 
taken  my  seat  before  I  was  forced  to  relinquish  it.  My  un- 
successful opponent,  Mr.  Lufton,  preferred  a  petition  against 
me,  for  what  he  called  undue  means.  Heaven  knows  what  he 
meant  ;  I  am  sure  the  House  did  not,  for  they  turned  me  out, 
and  declared  Mr.  Lufton  duly  elected. 

Never  was  there  such  a  commotion  in  the  Glenmorris  family 
before.  My  uncle  was  seized  with  the  gout  in  his  stomach, 
and  my  mother  shut  herself  up  with  Tremaine  and  one  china 
monster  for  a  whole  week.  As  for  me,  though  I  writhed  at 
heart,  I  bore  the  calamity  philosophically  enough  in  external 
appearance  ;  nor  did  I  the  less  busy  myself  in  political  matters  : 
with  what  address  and  success,  good  or  bad,  I  endeavored  to 
supply  the  loss  of  my  parliamentary  influence,  the  reader  will 
see,  when  it  suits  the  plot  of  this  history  to  touch  upon  such 
topics. 

Glanville  I  saw  continually.  When  in  tolerable  spirits,  he 
was  an  entertaining,  though  never  a  frank  nor  a  communicative 
companion.  His  conversation  then  was  lively,  yet  without 
wit,  and  sarcastic,  though  without  bitterness.  It  abounded 
also  in  philosophical  reflections  and  terse  maxims,  which  always 
brought  improvement,  or,  at  the  worst,  allowed  discussion.  He 
was  a  man  of  even  vast  powers — of  deep  thought,  of  luxuriant, 
though  dark  imagination,  and  of  great  miscellaneous  though, 
perhaps,  ill-arranged  erudition.  He  was  fond  of  paradoxes  in 
reasoning,  and  supported  them  with  a  subtlety  and  strength  of 
mind  which  Vincent,  who  admired  him  greatly,  told  me  he  had 
never  seen  surpassed.  He  was  subject,  at  times,  to  a  gloom 


176 

and  despondency  which  seemed  almost  like  aberration  of 
intellect.  At  those  hours  he  would  remain  perfectly  silent, 
and  apparently  forgetful  of  my  presence,  and  of  every  object 
around  him. 

It  was  only  then,  when  the  play  of  his  countenance  was 
vanished,  and  his  features  were  still  and  set,  that  you  saw  in 
their  full  extent  the  dark  and  deep  traces  of  premature  decay. 
His  cheek  was  hollow  and  hueless,  his  eye  dim,  and  of  that 
visionary  and  glassy  aspect  which  is  never  seen  but  in  great 
mental  or  bodily  disease,  and  which,  according  to  the  supersti- 
tions of  some  nations,  implies  a  mysterious  and  unearthly 
communion  of  the  soul  with  the  beings  of  another  world. 
From  these  trances  he  would  sometimes  start  abruptly,  and 
renew  any  conversation  broken  off  before,  as  if  wholly  uncon- 
scious of  the  length  of  his  revery.  At  others,  he  would  rise 
slowly  from  his  seat,  and  retire  into  his  own  apartment,  from 
which  he  never  emerged  during  the  rest  of  the  day. 

But  the  reader  must  bear  in  mind  that  there  was  nothing 
artificial  or  affected  in  his  musings,  of  whatever  complexion 
they  might  be  ;  nothing  like  the  dramatic  brown  studies,  and 
quick  starts,  which  young  gentlemen,  in  love  with  Lara  and 
Lord  Byron,  are  apt  to  practice.  There  never,  indeed,  was  a 
character  that  possessed  less  cant  of  any  description.  His 
work,  which  was  a  singular,  wild  tale — of  mingled  passion  and 
reflection— was,  perhaps,  of  too  original,  certainly  of  too 
abstract,  a  nature  to  suit  the  ordinary  novel  readers  of  the  day. 
It  did  not  acquire  popularity  for  itself,  but  it  gained  great 
reputation  for  the  author.  It  also  inspired  every  one  who  read 
it  with  a  vague  and  indescribable  interest  to  see  and  know  the 
person  who  had  composed  so  singular  a  work. 

This  interest  he  was  the  first  to  laugh  at,  and  to  disappoint. 
He  shrank  from  all  admiration  and  from  all  sympathy.  At 
the  moment  when  a  crowd  assembled  round  him,  and  every  ear 
was  bent  to  catch  the  words  which  came  alike  from  so  beauti- 
ful a  lip  and  so  strange  and  imaginative  a  mind,  it  was  his 
pleasure  to  utter  some  sentiment  totally  different  from  his 
written  opinions,  and  utterly  destructive  of  the  sensation  he 
had  excited.  But  it  was  very  rarely  that  he  exposed  himself 
to  these  "trials  of  an  author."  He  went  out  little  to  any  other 
house  but  Lady  Roseville's,  and  it  was  seldom  more  than  once 
a  week  that  he  was  ever  seen  there.  Lonely,  and  singular  in 
mind  and  habits,  he  lived  in  the  world  like  a  person  occupied 
by  a  separate  object,  and  possessed  of  a  separate  existence 
from  that  of  his  fellow-beings.  He  was  luxurious  and  splen- 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          177 

did,  beyond  all  men,  in  his  habits,  rather  than  his  tastes.  His 
table  groaned  beneath  a  weight  of  silver  too  costly  for  the  daily 
service  even  of  a  prince  ;  but  he  had  no  pleasure  in  surveying 
it.  His  wines  and  viands  were  of  the  most  exquisite  descrip- 
tion ;  but  he  scarcely  tasted  them.  Yet,  what  may  seem 
inconsistent,  he  was  averse  to  all  ostentation  and  show  in  the 
eyes  of  others.  He  admitted  very  few  into  his  society — no  one 
so  intimately  as  myself.  I  never  once  saw  more  than  three 
persons  at  his  table.  He  seemed,  in  his  taste  for  the  arts,  in 
his  love  of  literature,  and  his  pursuit  after  fame,  to  be,  as  he 
himself  said,  eternally  endeavoring  to  forget  and  eternally 
brought  back  to  remembrance. 

"  I  pity  that  man  even  more  than  I  admire  him,"  said  Vin- 
cent to  me,  one  night  when  we  were  walking  home  from  Glan- 
ville's  house.  "  His  is,  indeed,  the  disease  nulld  medicabilis 
herbd.  Whether  it  is  the  past  or  the  present  that  afflicts  him  ; 
whether  it  is  the  memory  of  past  evil,  or  the  satiety  of  present 
good,  he  has  taken  to  his  heart  the  bitterest  philosophy  of  life. 
He  does  not  reject  its  blessings  ;  he  gathers  them  around  him, 
but  as  a  stone  gathers  moss — cold,  hard,  unsoftened  by  the 
freshness  and  the  greenness  which  surround  it.  As  a  circle 
can  only  touch  a  circle  in  one  place,  everything  that  life  pre- 
sents to  him,  wherever  it  comes  from,  to  whatever  portion  of 
his  soul  it  is  applied,  can  find  but  one  point  of  contact  ;  and 
that  is  the  soreness  of  affliction  :  whether  it  is  the  obliirio  or 
the  otium  that  he  requires,  he  finds  equally  that  he  is  forever  in 
want  of  one  treasure  :  '  neque  gemmis  neque  purpurd  venale  nee 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

"  Mons.  Jourdain.  Etes-vous  fou  de  Taller  quereller  —  lui  qui  entend  la 
tierce  et  la  quarte,  et  qui  sail  tuer  un  homme  par  raison  demonstrative  ? 

I.e  M&itre  &  Danser.  Je  me  moque  de  sa  raison  demonstrative,  et  de  sa 
tierce  et  de  sa  quarte."  — 


"  HOLLO,  my  good  friend  ;  how  are  you  ?  D  —  d  glad  to  see 
you  in  England,"  vociferated  a  loud,  clear,  good-humored 
voice,  one  cold  morning,  as  I  was  shivering  down  Brook  Street 
into  Bond  Street.  I  turned,  and  beheld  Lord  Dartmore,  of 
Rocher  de  Cancale  memory.  I  returned  his  greeting  with  the 
same  cordiality  with  which  it  was  given  ;  and  I  was  forthwith 
saddled  with  Dartmore's  arm,  and  dragged  up  Bond  Street,  into 


178  PELHAM  J 

that  borough  of  all   noisy,   riotous,    unrefined    good   fellows. 

i  •      tr    t    i 

yclept s  Hotel. 

Here  we  were  soon  plunged  into  a  small,  low  apartment, 
which  Dartmore  informed  me  was  his  room,  and  which  was 
crowded  with  a  score  of  the  most  stalwart  youths  that  I  ever 
saw  out  of  a  marching  regiment. 

Dartmore  was  still  gloriously  redolent  of  Oxford  :  his  com- 
panions were  all  extracts  from  Christ  Church  ;  and  his  favorite 
occupations  were  boxing  and  hunting,  scenes  at  the  Fives' 
Courts,  nights  in  the  Cider  Cellar,  and  mornings  at  Bow  Street. 
Figure  to  yourself  a  fitter  companion  for  the  hero  and  writer  of 
these  adventures  !  The  table  was  covered  with  boxing  gloves, 
single-sticks,  two  ponderous  pair  of  dumb-bells,  a  large  pewter 
pot  of  porter,  and  four  foils  ;  one  snapped  in  the  middle. 

"  Well,"  cried  Dartmore,  to  two  strapping  youths,  with  their 
coats  off,  "  which  was  the  conqueror  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it  is  not  yet  decided,"  was  the  answer ;  and  forthwith 
the  bigger  one  hit  the  lesser  a  blow  with  his  boxing  glove, 
heavy  enough  to  have  felled  Ulysses,  who,  if  I  recollect  aright, 
was  rather  " a  game  blood"  in  such  encounters. 

This  slight  salute  was  forthwith  the  prelude  to  an  encounter 
which  the  whole  train  crowded  round  to  witness  ;  I,  among  the 
rest,  pretending  an  equal  ardor,  and  an  equal  interest,  and  hid- 
ing, like  many  persons  in  a  similar  predicament,  a  most  trem- 
bling spirit  beneath  a  most  valorous  exterior. 

When  the  match  (which  terminated  in  favor  of  the  lesser 
champion)  was  over,  "Come,  Pelham,"  said  Dartmore,  "let  me 
take  up  the  gloves  with  you  ?  " 

"  You  are  too  good  !  "  said  I,  for  the  first  time  using  my 
drawing-room  drawl.  A  wink  and  a  grin  went  round  the 
room. 

"  Well,  then,  will  you  fence  with  Staunton,  or  play  at  single- 
stick with  me  ?  "  said  the  short,  thick,  bullying,  impudent,  vul- 
gar Earl  of  Calton. 

"  Why,"  answered  I,  "  I  am  a  poor  hand  at  the  foils,  and  a 
still  worse  at  the  sticks ;  but  I  have  no  objection  to  exchange 
a  cut  or  two  at  the  latter  with  Lord  Calton." 

"No,  no!"  said  the  good-natured  Dartmore  ;  "no!  Calton 
is  the  best  stick-player  I  ever  knew  ";  and  then  whispering 
me,  he  added,  "  And  the  hardest  hitter — and  he  never  spares, 
either  " 

"  Really,"  said  I  aloud,  in  my  most  affected  tone,  "  it  is  a 
great  pity,  for  I  am  excessively  delicate  ;  but  as  I  said  I  would 
engage  him,  I  don't  like  to  retract.  Pray  let  me  look  at  the 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         179 

hilt :  I  hope  the  basket  is  strong  :  I  would  not  have  my 
knuckles  rapped  for  the  world — now  for  it.  I'm  in  a  deuced 
fright,  Dartmore";  and  so  saying,  and  inwardly  chuckling  at 
the  universal  pleasure  depicted  in  the  countenances  of  Caltort 
and  the  by-standers,  who  were  all  rejoiced  at  the  idea  of  the 
"  dandy  being  drubbed,"  I  took  the  stick,  and  pretended  great 
awkwardness  and  lack  of  grace  in  the  position  I  chose. 

Calton  placed  himself  in  the  most  scientific  attitude,  assum- 
ing at  the  same  time  an  air  of  hauteur  and  tionchalance,  which 
seemed  to  call  for  the  admiration  it  met. 

"  Do  we  allow  hard  hitting  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Oh  !  by  all  means,"  answered  Calton  eagerly. 

"  Well,"  said  I,  settling  my  own  chapcau,  "  had  not  you  bet- 
ter put  on  your  hat  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,"  answered  Calton  imperiously  ;  "  I  can  take  pretty 
good  care  of  my  head";  and  with  these  words  we  commenced. 

I  remained  at  first  nearly  upright,  not  availing  myself  in  the 
least  of  my  superiority  in  height,  and  only  acting  on  the  defen- 
sive. Calton  played  well  enough  for  a  gentleman  ;  but  he  was 
no  match  for  one  who  had,  at  the  age  of  thirteen,  beat  the  Life 
Guardsmen  at  Angelo's.  Suddenly,  when  I  had  excited  a  gen- 
eral laugh  at  the  clumsy  success  with  which  I  warded  off  a 
most  rapid  attack  of  Gallon's,  I  changed  my  position,  and  keep- 
ing Calton  at  arm's  length  till  I  had  driven  him  towards  a  cor- 
ner, I  took  advantage  of  a  haughty  imprudence  on  his  part, 
and,  by  a  common  enough  move  in  the  game,  drew  back  from 
a  stroke  aimed  at  my  limbs,  and  suffered  the  whole  weight  of 
my  weapon  to  fall  so  heavily  upon  his  head  that  I  felled  him  to 
the  ground  in  an  instant. 

I  was  sorry  for  the  severity  of  the  stroke  the  moment  after  it 
was  inflicted  ;  but  never  was  punishment  more  deserved.  We 
picked  up  the  discomfited  hero,  and  placed  him  on  a  chair  to 
recover  his  senses  ;  meanwhile  I  received  the  congratulations 
of  the  conclave  with  a  frank  alteration  of  mariner  which  de- 
lighted them  ;  and  I  found  it  impossible  to  get  away  till  I  had 
promised  to  dine  with  Dartmore,  and  spend  the  rest  of  the 
evening  in  the  society  of  his  friends. 


PELHAM  ', 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

"...  Heroes  mischievously  gay, 
Lords  of  the  street  and  terrors  of  the  way, 
Flush'd  as  they  are  with  folly,  youth,  and  wine." 

— JOHNSON'S  London. 

"Hoi.  Novi  hominem  tanquam  te — his  humor  is  lofty,  his  discourse  per- 
emptory, his  tongue  filed,  his  eye  ambitious,  his  gait  majestical,  and  his 
general  behavior  vain,  ridiculous,  and  thrasonical." — SHAKSPEARE. 

I  WENT  a  little  after  seven  o'clock  to  keep  my  dinner  en- 
gagement at 's  ;  for  very  young  men  are  seldom  unpunctual 

at  dinner.  We  sat  down,  six  in  number,  to  a  repast  at  once 
incredibly  bad  and  ridiculously  extravagant :  turtle  without 
fat,  venison  without  flavor,  champagne  with  the  taste  of  a 
gooseberry,  and  hock  with  the  properties  of  a  pomegranate.* 
Such  is  the  constant  habit  of  young  men  :  they  think  anything 
expensive  is  necessarily  good,  and  they  purchase  poison  at  a 
dearer  rate  than  the  most  medicine-loving  hypochondriac  in 
England. 

Of  course  all  the  knot  declared  the  dinner  was  superb ; 
called  in  the  master  to  eulogize  him  in  person,  and  made  him, 
to  his  infinite  dismay,  swallow  a  bumper  of  his  own  hock. 
Poor  man  !  they  mistook  his  reluctance  for  his  diffidence,  and 
forced  him  to  wash  it  away  in  another  potation.  With  many  a 
wry  face  of  grateful  humility  he  left  the  room,  and  we  then 
proceeded  to  pass  the  bottle  with  the  suicidal  determination  of 
defeated  Romans.  You  may  imagine  that  we  were  not  long  in 
arriving  at  the  devoutly  wished-for  consummation  of  comfort- 
able inebriety ;  and  with  our  eyes  reeling,  our  cheeks  burning, 
and  our  brave  spirits  full  ripe  for  a  quarrel,  we  sallied  out  at 
eleven  o'clock,  vowing  death,  dread,  and  destruction  to  all  the 
sober  portion  of  His  Majesty's  subjects. 

We  came  to  a  dead  halt  in  Arlington  Street,  which,  as  it  was 
the  quietest  spot  in  the  neighborhood,  we  deemed  a  fitting 
place  for  the  arrangement  of  our  forces.  Dartmore,  Staunton 
(a  tall,  thin,  well-formed,  silly  youth),  and  myself  marched 
first,  and  the  remaining  three  followed.  We  gave  each  other 
the  most  judicious  admonitions  as  to  propriety  of  conduct,  and 
then,  with  a  shout  that  alarmed  the  whole  street,  we  renewed 
our  way.  We  passed  on  safely  enough  till  we  got  to  Charing- 
Cross,  having  only  been  thrice  upbraided  by  the  watchmen, 
and  once  threatened  by  two  carmen  of  prodigious  size,  tq 

*  Wtyjqh  is  not  an  astringent  fruit. 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         l8l 

whose  wives  or  sweethearts  we  had,  to  our  infinite  peril,  made 
some  gentle  overtures.  When,  however,  we  had  just  passed 
the  Opera  Colonnade,  \ve  were  accosted  by  a  bevy  of  buxom 
Cyprians,  as  merry  and  as  drunk  as  ourselves.  We  halted  for 
a  few  minutes  in  the  midst  of  the  kennel  to  confabulate  with 
our  new  friends,  and  a  very  amicable  and  intellectual  conver- 
sation ensued.  Dartmore  was  an  adept  in  the  art  of  slang, 
and  he  found  himself  fairly  matched  by  more  than  one  of  the 
fair  and  gentle  creatures  by  whom  we  were  surrounded.  Just, 
however,  as  we  were  all  in  high  glee,  Staunton  made  a  trifling  dis- 
covery, which  turned  the  merriment  of  the  whole  scene  into 
strife,  war,  and  confusion.  A  bouncing  lass,  whose  hands  were 
as  feady  as  her  charms,  had  quietly  helped  herself  to  a  watch 
which  Staunton  wore,  a  la  mode,  in  his  waistcoat  pocket. 
Drunken  as  the  youth  was  at  that  time,  and  dull  as  he  was  at 
all  others,  he  was  not  without  the  instinctive  penetration  with 
which  all  human  bipeds  watch  over  their  individual  goods  and 
chattels.  He  sprang  aside  from  the  endearments  of  the  syren, 
grasped  her  arm,  and  in  a  voice  of  querulous  indignation,  ac- 
cused her  of  the  theft. 


"  Then  rose  the  cry  of  women — shrill 
As  shriek  of  goshawk  on  the  hill." 


Never  were  my  ears  so  stunned.  The  angry  authors  in  the 
adventures  of  Gil  Bias  were  nothing  to  the  disputants  in  the 
kennel  at  Charing-Cross  ;  we  rowed,  swore,  slanged,  with  a 
Christian  meekness  and  forbearance  which  would  have  rejoiced 
Mr.  Wilberforce  to  the  heart,  and  we  were  already  preparing 
ourselves  for  a  more  striking  engagement,  when  we  were  most 
unwelcomely  interrupted  by  the  presence  of  three  watchmen. 

"  Take  away  this — this — d — d  woman,"  hiccuped  out  Staun- 
ton, "she  has  sto-len — (hiccup) — my  watch" — (hiccup). 

"  No  such  thing,  watchman,"  hallooed  out  the  accused,  "the 
b —  counter-skipper  never  had  any  watch  !  He  only  filched 
a  twopenny-halfpenny  gilt-chain  out  of  his  master,  Levi,  the 
pawnbroker's  window,  and  stuck  it  in  his  eel-sk'in  to  make  a 
show  :  ye  did,  ye  pitiful,  lanky-chopped  son  of  a  dog-fish,  ye 
did." 

"Come,  come,"  said  the  watchman,  "move  on,  move  on." 

"  You  be  d — d,  for  a  Charley  !  "  said  one  of  our  gang. 

"  Ho  !  ho  !  Master  jackanapes,  I  shall  give  you  a  cooling  in 
the  watch-house  if  you  tips  us  any  of  your  jaw.  I  dare  say 
the  young  'oman  here  is  quite  right  about  ye,  and  ye  never  had 
any  watch  at  all,  at  all." 


182  PELHAM  J 

"  You  are  a  liar !  "  cried  Staunton  ;  "and  you  are  all  in  with 
each  other,  like  a  pack  of  rogues  as  you  are." 

"  I'll  tell  you  what,  young  gemman,"  said  another  watch- 
man,* who  was  a  more  potent,  grave,  and  reverend  signor  than 
his  comrades,  "  if  you  do  not  move  on  instantly,  and  let  those 
decent  young  'omen  alone,  I'll  take  you  all  up  before  Sir 
Richard." 

"Charley,  my  boy,"  said  Dartmore,  "did  you  ever  get 
thrashed  for  impertinence?" 

The  last-mentioned  watchman  took  upon  himself  the  reply 
to  this  interrogatory  by  a  very  summary  proceeding :  he 
collared  Dartmore,  and  his  companions  did  the  same  kind 
office  to  us.  This  action  was  not  committed  with  impunity : 
in  an  instant  two  of  the  moon's  minions,  staffs,  lanterns,  and 
all,  were  measuring  their  length  at  the  foot  of  their  namesake 
of  royal  memory;  the  remaining  Dogberry  was,  however,  a 
tougher  assailant ;  he  held  Staunton  so  firmly  in  his  gripe  that 
the  poor  youth  could  scarcely  breathe  out  a  faint  and  feeble 
d — n  ye  of  defiance,  and  with  his  disengaged  hand  he  made 
such  an  admirable  use  of  his  rattle  that  we  were  surrounded 
in  a  trice. 

As  when  an  ant-hill  is  invaded,  from  every  quarter  and 
crevice  of  the  mound  arise  and  pour  out  an  angry  host,  of 
whose  previous  existence  the  unwary  assailant  had  not  dreamt ; 
so  from  every  lane,  and  alley,  and  street,  and  crossing,  came 
fast  and  far  the  champions  of  the  night. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  Dartmore,  "we  must  fly  ;  sauve  qui  peut." 
We  wanted  no  stronger  admonition,  and  accordingly  all  of  us 
who  were  able  set  off  with  the  utmost  velocity  with  which  God 
had  gifted  us.  I  have  some  faint  recollection  that  I  myself 
headed  the  flight.  I  remember  well  that  I  dashed  up  the 
Strand,  and  dashed  down  a  singular  little  shed,  from  which 
emanated  the  steam  of  tea,  and  a  sharp,  querulous  scream  of 
"All  hot — all  hot;  a  penny  a  pint."  I  see,  now,  by  the  dim 
light  of  retrospection,  a  vision  of  an  old  woman  in  the  kennel, 
and  a  pewter'pot  of  mysterious  ingredients  precipitated  into 
a  greengrocer's  shop,  "te  virides  inter  lauros"  as  Vincent 
would  have  said.  On  we  went,  faster  and  faster,  as  the  rattle 
rang  in  our  ears,  and  the  tramp  of  the  enemy  echoed  after  us 
in  hot  pursuit. 

"  The  devil  take  the  hindmost,"  said  Dartmore  breathlessly 
(as  he  kept  up  with  me). 

*  The  reader  will  remember  that  this  work  was  written  before  the  Institution  of  the  New 
Polke. 


OR,  ADVENTURES   OF    A    GENTLEMAN.  183 

"The  watchman  has  saved  his  majesty  the  trouble,"  answered 
I,  looking  back  and  seeing  one  of  our  friends  in  the  clutch  of 
the  pursuers. 

"  On,  on  !  "  was  Dartmore's  only  reply. 

At  last,  after  innumerable  perils,  and  various  immersements 
into  back  passages,  and  courts,  and  alleys,  which,  like  the 
chicaneries  of  law,  preserved  and  befriended  us,  in  spite  of  all 
the  efforts  of  justice,  we  fairly  found  ourselves  in  safety  in  the 
midst  of  a  great  square. 

Here  we  paused,  and  after  ascertaining  our  individual  safeties, 
we  looked  around  to  ascertain  the  sum  total  of  the  general 
loss.  Alas  !  we  were  wofully  shorn  of  our  beams — we  were 
reduced  one-half  ;  only  three  out  of  the  six  survived  the  con- 
flict and  the  flight. 

"  Half,"  (said  the  companion  of  Dartmore  and  myself,  whose 
name  was  Tringle,  and  who  was  a  dabbler  in  science,  of  which 
he  was  not  a  little  vain) — "  half  is  less  worthy  than  the  whole  ; 
but  the  half  is  more  worthy  than  nonentity." 

"  An  axiom,"  said  I,  "  not  to  be  disputed  ;  but  now  that  we 
are  safe,  and  have  time  to  think  about  it,  are  you  not  slightly 
of  the  opinion  that  we  behaved  somewhat  scurvily  to  our 
better  half,  in  leaving  it  so  quietly  in  the  hands  of  the  Philis- 
tines ?  " 

"  By  no  means,"  answered  Dartmore.  "  In  a  party  whose 
members  make  no  pretensions  to  sobriety,  it  would  be  too  hard 
to  expect  that  persons  who  are  scarcely  capable  of  taking  care 
of  themselves,  should  take  care  of  other  people.  No;  we 
have  in  all  these  exploits  only  the  one  maxim  of  self-preserva- 
tion." 

"  Allow  me,"  said  Tringle,  seizing  me  by  the  coat,  "  to  ex- 
plain it  to  you  on  scientific  principles.  You  will  find,  in  hy- 
drostatics, that  the  attraction  of  cohesion  is  far  less  powerful 
in  fluids  than  in  solids  ;  viz.,  that  persons  who  have  been  con- 
verting their  '  solid  flesh  '  into  wine  skins,  cannot  stick  so  close 
to  one  another  as  when  they  are  sober." 

"  Bravo,  Tringle  !  "  cried  Dartmore  ;  "  and  now,  Pelham,  I 
hope  your  delicate  scruples  are,  after  so  luminous  an  ddair- 
cisscment,  set  at  rest  forever." 

"You  have  convinced  me,"  said  I ;  "  let  us  leave  the  unfor- 
tunates to  their  fate  and  Sir  Richard.  What  is  now  to  be 
done  ? " 

"  Why,  in  the  first  place,"  answered  Dartmore,  "  let  us  rec- 
onnoitre. Does  any  one  know  this  spot  ?" 

"  Not  I,"  said  both  of  us.     We  inquired  of  an  old  fellow, 


who  was  tottering  home  under  the  same  Bacchanalian  auspices 
as  ourselves,  and  found  we  were  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields. 

"Which  shall  we  do?"  asked  I  ;  "stroll  home  ;  or  parade 
the  streets,  visit  the  Cider-Cellar,  and  the  Finish,  and  kiss  the 
first  lass  we  meet  in  the  morning  bringing  her  charms  and 
carrots  to  Covent  Garden  Market  ?  " 

"The  latter,"  cried  Dartmore  and  Tringle,  "without doubt." 

"  Come,  then,"  said  I,  let  us  investigate  Holborn,  and  dip 
into  St.  Giles's,  and  then  find  our  way  into  some  more  known 
corner  of  the  globe." 

"Amen  !"  said  Dartmore,  and  accordingly  we  renewed  our 
march.  We  wound  along  a  narrow  lane,  tolerably  well  known, 
I  imagine,  to  the  gentlemen  of  the  quill,  and  entered  Holborn. 
There  was  a  beautiful  still  moon  above  us,  which  cast  its  light 
over  a  drowsy  stand  of  hackney  coaches,  and  shed  a  "  silver 
sadness  "  over  the  thin  visages  and  sombre  vestments  of  two 
guardians  of  the  night,  who  regarded  us,  we  thought,  Avith  a 
very  ominous  aspect  of  suspicion. 

We  strolled  along,  leisurely  enough,  till  we  were  interrupted 
by  a  miserable-looking  crowd,  assembled  round  a  dull,  dingy, 
melancholy  shop,  from  which  gleamed  a  solitary  candle,  whose 
long,  spinster-like  wick  was  flirting  away  with  an  east  wind  at 
a  most  unconscionable  rate.  Upon  the  haggard  and  worn 
countenances  of  the  bystanders  was  depicted  one  general  and 
sympathizing  expression  of  eager,  envious,  wistful  anxiety, 
which  predominated  so  far  over  the  various  characters  of  each, 
as  to  communicate  something  of  a  likeness  to  all.  It  was  an 
impress  of  such  a  seal  as  you  might  imagine,  not  the  arch- 
fiend, but  one  of  his  subordinate  shepherds,  would  have  set 
upon  each  of  his  flock. 

Amid  this  crowd  I  recognized  more  than  one  face  which  I 
had  often  seen  in  my  equestrian  lounges  through  town,  peering 
from  the  shoulders  of  some  intrusive,  ragamuffin,  wages-less 
lackey,  and  squealing  out  of  its  wretched,  unpampered 
mouth,  the  everlasting  query  of  "Want  your  'oss  held,  sir  ?" 
The  rest  were  made  up  of  unfortunate  women  of  the  vilest 
and  most  ragged  description,  aged  itinerants,  with  features 
seared  with  famine,  bleared  eyes,  dropping  jaws,  shivering 
limbs,  and  all  the  mortal  signs  of  hopeless  and  aidless,  and, 
worst  of  all,  breadless  infirmity.  Here  and  there  an  Irish 
accent  broke  out  in  the  oaths  of  national  impatience,  and  was 
answered  by  the  shrill,  broken  voice  of  some  decrepit  but  in- 
defatigable votaries  of  pleasure  {Pleasure!} — but  the  chief 
character  of  the  meeting  was  silence — silence,  eager,  heavy,  en- 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         185 

grossing  ;  and  above  them  all  shone  out  the  quiet  moon,  so 
calm,  so  holy,  so  breathing  of  still  happiness  and  unpolluted 
glory,  as  if  it  never  looked  upon  the  traces  of  human  passion,  and 
misery,  and  sin.  We  stood  for  some  moments  contemplating 
the  group  before  us,  and  then,  following  the  steps  of  an  old, 
withered  crone,  who,  with  a  cracked  cup  in  her  hand,  was 
pushing  her  way  through  the  throng,  we  found  ourselves  in 
that  dreary  pandemonium,  at  once  the  origin  and  the  refuge 
of  humble  vices—  a  gin  shop. 

"  Poor  devils,"  said  Dartmore,  to  two  or  three  of  the  nearest 
and  eagerest  among  the  crowd,  "come  in  and  I  will  treat  you." 

The  invitation  was  received  with  a  promptness  which  must 
have  been  the  most  gratifying  compliment  to  the  inviter  ;  and 
thus  Want,  which  is  the  mother  of  Invention,  does  not  object, 
now  and  then,  to  a  bantling  by  Politeness. 

We  stood  by  the  counter  while  our protiges  were  served,  in 
silent  observation.  In  low  vice,  to  me,  there  is  always  some- 
thing too  gloomy,  almost  too  fearful,  for  light  mirth  ;  the  con- 
tortions of  the  madman  are  stronger  than  those  of  the  fool,  but 
one  does  not  laugh  at  them  ;  the  smypathy  is  for  the  cause, 
not  the  effect. 

Leaning  against  the  counter  at  one  corner,  and  fixing  his 
eyes  deliberately  and  unmovingly  upon  us,  was  a  man  about 
the  age  of  fifty,  dressed  in  a  costume  of  singular  fashion, 
apparently  pretending  to  an  antiquity  of  taste  correspondent 
with  that  of  the  material.  This  person  wore  a  large  cocked- 
hat,  set  rather  jauntily  on  one  side,  and  a  black  coat,  which 
seemed  an  omnium  gatherum  of  all  abominations  that  had 
come  in  its  way  for  the  last  ten  years,  and  which  appeared  to 
advance  equal  claims  (from  the  manner  it  was  made  and  worn), 
to  the  several  dignities  of  the  art  military  and  civil,  the  anna 
and  the  toga  j  from  the  neck  of  the  wearer  hung  a  blue  ribbon 
of  amazing  breadth,  and  of  a  very  surprising  assumption  of 
newness  and  splendor,  by  no  means  in  harmony  with  the  other 
parts  of  the  tout  ensemble  ;  this  was  the  guardian  of  an  eye- 
glass of  block  tin,  and  of  dimensions  correspondent  with  the 
size  of  the  ribbon.  Stuck  under  the.  right  arm,  and  shaped 
fearfully  like  a  sword,  peeped  out  the  hilt  of  a  very  large  and 
sturdy  looking  stick,  "  in  war  a  weapon,  in  peace  a  support." 

The  features  of  the  man  were  in  keeping  with  his  garb: 
they  betokened  an  equal  mixture  of  the  traces  of  poverty  and 
the  assumption  of  the  dignities  reminiscent  of  a  better  day. 
Two  small,  light-blue  eyes  were  shaded  by  bushy  and  rather 
imperious  brows,  which  lowered  from  under  the  hat,  like  Cer- 


i86  PELHAM  ; 

berus  out  of  his  den.  These,  at  present,  wore  the  dull,  fixed 
stare  of  habitual  intoxication,  though  we  were  not  long  in 
discovering  that  they  had  not  yet  forgotten  to  sparkle  with  all 
the  quickness,  and  more  than  the  roguery  of  youth.  His  nose 
was  large,  prominent,  and  aristocratic  ;  nor  would  it  have 
been  ill  formed,  had  not  some  unknown  cause  pushed  it  a 
little  nearer  towards  the  left  ear  than  would  have  been  thought, 
by  an  equitable  judge  of  beauty,  fair  to  the  pretensions  of  the 
right.  The  lines  in  the  countenance  were  marked  as  if  in 
iron,  and  had  the  face  been  perfectly  composed,  must  have 
given  to  it  a  remarkably  stern  and  sinister  appearance  ;  but 
at  that  moment  there  was  an  arch  leer  about  the  mouth, 
which  softened,  or  at  least  altered  the  expression  the  features 
habitually  wore. 

"  Sir,"  said  he  (after  a  few  minutes  of  silence) — "sir,"  said 
he,  approaching  me,  "  will  you  do  me  the  honor  to  take  a 
pinch  of  snuff  ? "  and  so  saying,  he  tapped  a  curious  copper 
box,  with  a  picture  of  his  late  majesty  upon  it. 

"  With  great  pleasure,"  answered  I,  bowing  low,  "  since  the 
act  is  a  prelude  to  the  pleasure  of  your  acquaintance." 

My  gentleman  of  the  gin-shop  opened  his  box  with  an  air, 
as  he  replied  :  "  It  is  but  seldom  that  I  meet,  in  places  of 
this  description,  gentlemen  of  the  exterior  of  yourself  and 
your  friends.  I  am  not  a  person  very  easily  deceived  by 
the  outward  man.  Horace,  sir,  could  not  have  included  me, 
when  he  said,  specie  decipimur.  I  perceive  that  you  are  sur- 
prised at  hearing  me  quote  Latin.  Alas !  sir,  in  my  wander- 
ing and  various  manner  of  life  I  may  say,  with  Cicero  and 
Pliny,  that  the  study  of  letters  has  proved  my  greatest  con- 
solation. '  Gaudium  mihi,'  says  the  latter  author,  ' et  solatium 
inliteris:  nihiltam  Icetum  quod  his  non  Itztius,  nihil  tarn  triste 
quod  non  per  has  sit  minus  triste.'  G — d  d — n  ye,  you  scoun- 
drel, give  me  my  gin  !  ar'n't  you  ashamed  of  keeping  a  gentle- 
man of  my  fashion  so  long  waiting?" 

This  was  said  to  the  sleepy  dispenser  of  the  spirituous  pota- 
tions, who  looked  up  for  a  moment  with  a  dull  stare,  and 
then  replied  :  "  Your  money  first,  Mr.  Gordon — you  owe  us 
seven-pence  halfpenny  already  !  " 

"  Blood  and  confusion  !  speakest  thou  to  me  of  halfpence  ! 
Know  that  thou  art  a  mercenary  varlet  ;  yes,  knave,  mark 
that,  a  mercenary  varlet."  The  sleepy  Ganymede  replied  not, 
and  the  wrath  of  Mr.  Gordon  subsided  into  a  low,  interrupted, 
internal  muttering  of  strange  oaths,  which  rolled  and  grumbled, 
and  rattled  in  his  throat,  like  distant  thunder, 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         187 

At  length  he  cheered  up  a  little — "  Sir,"  said  he,  addressing 
»)artmore,  "  it  is  a  sad  thing  to  be  dependent  on  these  low 
persons  ;  the  wise  among  the  ancients  were  never  so  wrong  as 
when  they  panegyrized  poverty  :  it  is  the  wicked  man's  tempter, 
the  good  man's  perdition,  the  proud  man's  curse,  the  mel- 
ancholy man's  halter." 

"  You  are  a  strange  old  cock,"  said  the  unsophisticated 
Dartmore,  eyeing  him  from  head  to  foot  ;  there's  half  a  sove- 
reign for  you." 

The  blunt  blue  eyes  of  Mr.  Gordon  sharpened  up  in  an  in- 
stant ;  he  seized  the  treasure  with  an  avidity  of  which,  the 
minute  after,  he  seemed  somewhat  ashamed  ;  for  he  said,  play- 
ing with  the  coin  in  an  idle,  indifferent  manner  :  "  Sir,  you 
show  a  consideration,  and,  let  me  add,  sir,  a  delicacy  of  feel- 
ing, unusual  at  your  years.  Sir,  I  shall  repay  you  at  my  ear- 
liest leisure,  and  in  the  mean  while  allow  me  to  say,  that  I 
shall  be  proud  of  the  honor  of  your  acquaintance." 

"  Thank-ye,  old  boy,"  said  Dartmore,  putting  on  his  glove 
before  he  accepted  the  offered  hand  of  his  new  friend,  which, 
though  it  was  tendered  with  great  grace  and  dignity,  was  of  a 
marvellously  dingy  and  soapless  aspect. 

"  Harkye,  you  d — d  son  of  a  gun  !  "  cried  Mr.  Gordon,  ab- 
ruptly turning  from  Dartmore,  after  a  hearty  shake  of  the 
hand,  to  the  man  at  the  counter  :  "harkye  !  give  me  change 
for  this  half-sovereign,  and  be  d — d  to  you — and  then  tip  us 
a  double  gill  of  your  best  ;  you  whey-faced,  liver-drenched, 
pence  griping,  belly-griping,  pauper-cheating,  sleepy-souled 
Arismanes  of  bad  spirits.  Cv.me,  gentlemen,  if  you  have  noth- 
ing better  to  do,  I'll  take  you  to  my  club  ;  we  are  a  rare  knot 
of  us,  there — all  choice  spirits  ;  some  of  them  are  a  little  un- 
couth, it  is  true,  but  we  are  not  all  born  Chesterfields.  Sir, 
allow  me  to  ask  the  favor  of  your  name  ?  " 

"  Dartmore." 

"  Mr.  Dartmore,  you  are  a  gentleman.  Hollo  !  you  Liquor- 
Pond-street  of  a  scoundrel — having  nothing  of  liquor  but  the 
name,  you  narrow,  nasty,  pitiful  alley  of  a  fellow,  with  a  ken- 
nel for  a  body,  and  a  sink  for  a  soul  ;  give  me  my  change  and 
my  gin,  you  scoundrel  !  Humph,  is  that  all  right,  you  Pro- 
crustes of  the  counter,  chopping  our  lawful  appetites  down  to 
your  rascally  standard  of  seven-pence  halfpenny  ?  Why  don't 
you  take  a  motto,  you  Paynimdog?  Here's  one  for  you — 'Meas- 
ure for  measure,  and  the  devil  to  pay  !  '  Humph,  you  pitiful 
toadstool  of  a  trader,  you  have  no  more  spirit  than  an  empty 
water-bottle  ;  and  when  you  go  tq  h-11,  they'll  use  you  to  cool 


l88  PELHAM  J 

the  bellows.  I  say,  you  rascal,  why  are  you  worse  off  than  the 
devil  in  a  hip-bath  of  brimstone  ?  Because,  you  knave,  the 
devil  then  would  only  be  half  d — d,  and  you're  d — d  all  over  ! — 
Come,  gentlemen,  I  am  at  your  service." 


CHAPTER  L. 

"  The  history  of  a  philosophical  vagabond,  pursuing  novelty,  and  losing 
content." — Vicar  of  Wakefield. 

WE  followed  our  strange  friend  through  the  crowd  at  the 
door,  which  he  elbowed  on  either  side  with  the  most  aristo- 
cratic disdain,  perfectly  regardless  of  their  jokes  at  his  dress 
and  manner;  he  no  sooner  got  through  the  throng  than  he 
stopped  short  (though  in  the  midst  of  the  kennel)  and  offered 
us  his  arm.  This  was  an  honor  of  which  we  were  by  no  means 
desirous  ;  for,  to  say  nothing  of  the  shabbiness  of  Mr.  Gordon's 
exterior,  there  was  a  certain  odor  in  his  garments  which  was 
possibly  less  displeasing  to  the  wearer  than  to  his  acquaintance. 
Accordingly,  we  pretended  not  to  notice  this  invitation,  and 
merely  said  we  would  follow  his  guidance. 

He  turned  up  a  narrow  street,  and  after  passing  some  of  the 
most  ill-favored  alleys  I  ever  had  the  happiness  of  beholding, 
he  stopped  at  a  low  door  ;  here  he  knocked  twice,  and  was  at 
last  admitted  by  a  slipshod,  yawning  wench,  with  red  arms, 
and  a  profusion  of  sandy  hair.  This  Hebe  Mr.  Gordon  greet- 
ed with  a  loving  kiss,  which  the  kissee  resented  in  a  very  un- 
equivocal strain  of  disgustful  reproach. 

"  Hush  !  my  Queen  of  Clubs  ;  my  Sultana  !  "  said  Mr.  Gor- 
don— "  hush  !  or  these  gentlemen  will  think  you  in  earnest.  I 
have  brought  three  new  customers  to  the  club." 

This  speech  somewhat  softened  the  incensed  Houri  of  Mr. 
Gordon's  Paradise,  and  she  very  civilly  asked  us  to  enter. 

"  Stop  ! "  said  Mr.  Gordon  with  an  air  of  importance,  "  I 
must  just  step  in  and  ask  the  gentlemen  to  admit  you  ;  merely 
a  form,  for  a  word  from  me  will  be  quite  sufficent."  And  so 
saying,  he  vanished  for  about  five  minutes. 

On  his  return,  he  said,  with  a  cheerful  countenance,  that  we 
were  free  of  the  house,  but  that  we  must  pay  a  shilling  each  as 
the  customary  fee.  This  sum  was  soon  collected,  and  quietly 
inserted  in  the  waistcoat  pocket  of  our  chaperon,  who  then 
conducted  us  up  the  passage  into  a  small  back  room,  where 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          189 

were  sitting  about  seven  or  eight  men,  enveloped  in  smoke, 
and  moistening  the  fever  of  the  Virginian  plant  with  various 
preparations  of  malt.  On  entering,  I  observed  Mr.  Gordon 
deposit,  at  a  sort  of  bar,  the  sum  of  threepence,  by  which  I 
shrewdly  surmised  he  had  gained  the  sum  of  two  and  nine- 
pence  by  our  admission.  With  a  very  arrogant  air  he  pro- 
ceeded to  the  head  of  the  table,  sat  himself  down  with  a  swa»g- 
ger,  and  called  out,  like  a  lusty  roisterer  of  the  true  kidney,  for 
a  pint  of  purl  and  a  pipe.  Not  to  be  out  of  fashion,  we  ordered 
the  same  articles  of  luxury. 

After  we  had  all  commenced  a  couple  of  puffs  at  our  pipes, 
I  looked  round  at  our  fellow-guests  ;  they  seemed  in  a  very 
poor  state  of  body,  as  might  naturally  be  supposed ;  and,  in 
order  to  ascertain  how  far  the  condition  of  the  mind  was  suited 
to  that  of  the  frame,  I  turned  round  to  Mr.  Gordon,  and  asked 
him  in  a  whisper  to  give  us  a  few  hints  as  to  the  genus  and 
characteristics  of  the  individual  components  of  his  club.  Mr. 
Gordon  declared  himself  delighted  with  the  proposal,  and  we 
all  adjourned  to  a  separate  table  at  the  corner  of  the  room, 
where  Mr.  Gordon,  after  a  deep  draught  at  the  purl,  thus 
began  : 

"  You  observe  yon  thin,  meagre,  cadaverous  animal,  with 
rather  an  intelligent  and  melancholy  expression  of  counte- 
nance— his  name  is  Chitterling  Crabtree  :  his  father  was  an 
eminent  coal  merchant,  and  left  him  ^10,000.  Crabtree 
turned  politician.  When  Fate  wishes  to  ruin  a  man  of  mod- 
erate abilities  and  moderate  fortune,  she  makes  him  an  orator. 
Mr.  Chitterling  Crabtree  attended  all  the  meetings  of  the 
Crown  and  Anchor  ;  subscribed  to  the  aid  of  the  suffering 
friends  of  freedom  :  harangued,  argued,  sweated,  wrote ;  was 
fined  and  imprisoned  ;  regained  his  liberty  and  married — his 
wife  loved  a  community  of  goods  no  less  than  her  spouse,  and 
ran  off  with  one  citizen,  while  he  was  running  on  to  the  others. 
Chitterling  dried  his  tears  ;  and  contented  himself  with  the  re- 
flection, that  'in  a  proper  state  of  things' such  an  event 
could  not  have  occurred. 

"  Mr.  Crabtree's  money  and  life  were  now  half  gone.  One 
does  not  subscribe  to  the  friends  of  freedom  and  spout  at  their 
dinners  for  nothing.  But  the  worst  drop  was  yet  in  the  cup. 
An  undertaking,  of  the  most  spirited  and  promising  nature,  was 
conceived  by  the  chief  of  the  friends,  and  the  dearest  familiar  of 
Mr.  Chitterling  Grabtree.  Our  worthy  embarked  his  fortune 
in  a  speculation  so  certain  of  success  ;  crash  went  the  specula- 
tion, and  off  went  the  friend  ;  Mr.  Crabtree  was  ruined.  He 


190  PELHAM  ; 

was  not,  however,  a  man  to  despair  at  trifles.  What  were 
bread,  meat,  and  beer  to  the  champion  of  equality  !  He  went 
to  the  meeting  that  very  night ;  he  said  he  gloried  in  his  losses — 
they  were  for  the  cause  :  the  whole  conclave  rang  with  shouts  of 
applause,  and  Mr.  Chitterling  Crabtree  went  to  bed  happier 
than  erer.  I  need  not  pursue  his  history  farther:  you  see  him 
here — verbum  sat.  He  spouts  at  the  'Ciceronian,'  for  half  a 
crown  a  night,  and  to  this  day  subscribes  sixpence  a  week  to 
the  cause  of  '  liberty  and  enlightenment  all  over  the  world.'  " 

"  By  heaven  !  "  cried  Dartmo^e,  "  he  is  a  fine  fellow,  and  my 
father  shall  do  something  for  him." 

Gordon  pricked  up  his  ears  and  continued  :  "  Now,  for  the 
second  person,  gentlemen,  whom  I  am  about  to  describe  to 
you.  You  see  that  middle-sized  stout  man,  with  a  slight 
squint,  and  a  restless,  lowering,  cunning  expression  ?  " 

"  What  !  him  in  the  kerseymere  breeches  and  green  jacket  ?" 
said  I. 

"  The  same,"  answered  Gordon  ;  "  his  real  name,  when  he 
does  not  travel  with  an  alias,  is  Job  Jonson.  He  is  one  of  the 
most  remarkable  rogues  in  Christendom  ;  he  is  so  noted  a  cheat 
that  there  is  not  a  pickpocket  in  England  who  would  keep 
company  with  him  if  he  had  anything  to  lose.  He  was  the 
favorite  of  his  father,  who  intended  to  leave  him  all  his  for- 
tune, which  was  tolerably  large.  He  robbed  him  one  day  on  the 
highroad  ;  his  father  discovered  it,  and  disinherited  him.  He 
was  placed  at  a  merchant's  office,  and  rose,  step  by  step,  to  be 
head  clerk,  and  intended  son-in-law.  Three  nights  before  his 
marriage  he  broke  open  the  till,  and  was  turned  out  of  doors 
the  next  morning.  If  you  were  going  to  do  him  the  greatest 
favor  in  the  world,  he  could  not  keep  his  hands  out  of  your 
pocket  till  you  had  done  it.  In  short,  he  has  rogued  him- 
self out  of  a  dozen  fortunes,  and  a  hundred  friends,  and  man- 
aged with  incredible  dexterity  and  success  to  cheat  himself 
into  beggary  and  a  not  of  beer." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  I,  "but  I  think  a  sketch  of  your 
own  life  must  be  more  amusing  than  that  of  any  one  else :  am 
I  impertinent  in  asking  for  it  ?  " 

"Not  at  all,"  replied  Mr.  Gordon  ;  "you  shall  have  it  in  as 
few  words  as  possible. 

"I  was  born  a  gentleman,  and  educated  with  some  pains; 
they  told  me  I,  was  a  genius,  and  it  was  not  very  hard  to  per- 
suade me  of  the  truth  of  the  assertion.  I  wrote  verses  to  a 
wonder;  robbed  orchards  according  to  military  tactics;  never 
played  at  marbles,  \vithout  explaining  to  my  competitors  the 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          19! 

theory  of  attraction  ;  and  was  the  best  informed,  most  mis- 
chievous little  rascal  in  the  whole  school.  My  family  were  in 
great  doubt  what  to  do  with  so  prodigious  a  wonder  ;  one  said 
the  Law,  another  the  Church,  a  third  talked  of  Diplomacy,  and 
a  fourth  assured  my  mother,  that  if  I  could  but  be  introduced 
at  court,  I  should  be  lord  chamberlain  in  a  twelvemonth. 
While  my  friends  were  deliberating,  I  took  the  liberty  of  de- 
ciding :  I  enlisted,  in  a  fit  of  loyal  valor,  in  a  marching  regi- 
ment ;  my  friends  made  the  best  of  a  bad  job,  and  bought  me 
an  ensigncy. 

"  I  recollect  I  read  Plato  the  night  before  I  went  to  battle  ; 
the  next  morning  they  told  me*I  ran  away.  I  am  sure  it  was 
a  malicious  invention,  for  if  I  had,  I  should  have  recollected 
it|;  whereas,  I  was  in  such  a  confusion  that  I  cannot  remember 
a  single  thing  that  happened  in  the  whole  course  of  that  day. 
About  six  months  afterwards  I  found  myself  out  of  the  army, 
and  in  gaol ;  and  no  sooner  had  my  relations  released  me  from 
the  latter  predicament,  than  I  set  off  on  my  travels.  At  Dub- 
lin I  lost  my  heart  to  a  rich  widow  (as  I  thought);  I  married 
her,  and  found  her  as  poor  as  myself.  Heaven  knows  what 
would  of  become  of  me  if  I  had  not  taken  to  drinking  ;  my 
wife  scorned  to  be  outdone  by  me  in  anything ;  she  followed 
my  example,  and  at  the  end  of  a  year  I  followed  her  to  the 
grave.  Since  then  I  have  taken  warning,  and  been  scrupu- 
lously sober.  Betty,  my  love,  another  pint  of  purl. 

"  I  was  now  once  more  a  freeman  in  the  prime  of  my  life  ; 
handsome,  as  you  see,  gentlemen,  and  with  the  strength  and 
spirit  of  a  young  Hercules.  Accordingly  I  dried  my  tears, 
turned  marker  by  night  at  a  gambling  house,  and  buck  by  day, 
in  Bond  Street  (for  I  had  returned  to  London).  I  remember 
well  one  morning,  that  his  present  Majesty  was  pleased,  en  pas- 
sant, to  admire  my  buckskins — tempora  mutantur.  Well,  gen- 
tlemen, one  night  at  a  brawl  in  our  salon,  my  nose  met  with  a 
rude  hint  to  move  to  the  right.  I  went,  in  a  great  panic,  to  the 
surgeon,  who  mended  the  matter  by  moving  it  to  the  left. 
There,  thank  God  !  it  has  rested  in  quiet  ever  since.  It  is 
needless  to  tell  you  the  nature  of  the  quarrel  in  which  this  acci- 
dent occurred  ;  however,  my  friends  thought  it  necessary  to 
remove  me  from  the  situation  I  then  held.  I  went  once  more 
to  Ireland,  and  was  introduced  to 'a  friend  of  freedom.'  I 
was  poor  ;  that  circumstance  is  quite  enough  to  make  a  patriot. 
They  sent  me  to  Paris  on  a  secret  mission,  and  when  I  returned 
my  friends  were  in  prison.  Being  always  of  a  free  disposition, 
I  clid  not  envy  them  their  situation  ;  accordingly,  \  returned  to 


192 


PELHAM 


England.  Halting  at  Liverpool,  with  a  most  debilitated  purse, 
I  went  into  a  silversmith's  shop  to  brace  it,  and  about  six 
months  afterwards  I  found  myself  on  a  marine  excursion  to 
Botany  Bay.  On  my  return  from  that  country,  I  resolved  to 
turn  my  literary  talents  to  account.  I  went  to  Cambridge, 
wrote  declamations,  and  translated  Virgil  at  so  much  a  sheet. 
My  relations  (thanks  to  my  letters,  neither  few  nor  far  between) 
soon  found  me  out ;  they  allowed  me  (they  do  so  still)  half  a 
guinea  a  week  ;  and  upon  this  and  my  declamations  I  manage 
to  exist.  Ever  since,  my  chief  residence  has  been  at  Cam- 
bridge. I  am  an  universal  favorite  with  both  graduates  and 
undergraduates.  I  have  reformed  my  life  and  my  manners, 
and  have  become  the  quiet,  orderly  person  you  behold  me. 
Age  tames  the  fiercest  of  us  : 

'  Non  sum  qualis  eram.' 

"  Betty,  bring  me  my  purl,  and  be  d — d  to  you. 

"  It  is  now  vacation  time,  and  I  have  come  to  town  with 
the  idea  of  holding  lectures  on  the  state  of  education.  Mr. 
Dartmore,  your  health.  Gentlemen,  yours.  My  story  is  done, — 
and  I  hope  you  will  pay  for  the  purl."* 


CHAPTER  LI. 
"  I  hate  a  drunken  rogue." — Twelfth  Night. 

WE  took  an  affectionate  leave  of  Mr.  Gordon,  and  found 
ourselves  once  more  in  the  open  air ;  the  smoke  and  the  purl 
Had  contributed  greatly  to  the  continuance  of  our  inebriety,  and 
we  were  as  much  averse  to  bed  as  ever.  We  conveyed  our- 
selves, laughing  and  rioting  all  the  way,  to  a  stand  of  hackney- 
coaches.  We  entered  the  head  of  the  flock,  and  drove  to 
Piccadilly.  It  set  us  down  at  the  corner  of  the  Haymarket. 

"  Past  two  ! "  cried  the  watchman,  as  we  sauntered  by  him. 

"  You  lie,  you  rascal,"  said  I,  "  you  have  passed  three  now." 

We  were  all  merry  enough  to  laugh  at  this  sally  ;  and  seeing 

*  Poor  Jemmy  Gordon— thou  art  no  more  !  The  stones  of  Cambridge  no  longer  prate  of 
thy  whereabouts  !  Death  hath  removed  thee— may  it  not  be  to  that  bourne  where  alone 
thy  oaths  can  be  outdone  !  He  was  indeed  a  singular  character,  that  Jemmy  Gordon,  as 
many  a  generation  of  Cantabs  can  attest !  His  long  stick  and  his  cocked  hat— and  his 
tattered  Lucretius,  and  his  mighty  eyeglass,  how  familiarly  do  they  intermingle  with  our 
recollections  of  Trinity  and  of  Trumpingtoiv  streets  !  If  I  have  rightly  heard,  his  death 
was  the  consequence  of  a  fractured  limb.  Laid  by  the  leg  in  a  lofty  attic,  his  spirit  was 
not  tamed  !  the  noises  he  made  were  astounding  to  the  last.  The  gnm  foe  carried  him  off 
in  a  whirlwind  of  slang  !  I  do  not  say  "Peace  to  his  manes, "  for  quiet  would  be  the  worst 
hell  that  could  await  him  ;  and  Heaven  itself  would  be  torture  to  Jemmy  Gordon,  if  he 
were  not  allowed  te  swear  in  it !  Noisest  of  reprobates,  fare  thce  well  ! — H.  P. 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          193 

a  light  gleam  from  the  entrance  of  the  Royal  Saloon  we  knocked 
at  the  door,  and  it  was  opened  unto  us.  We  sat  down  at  the 
only  spare  table  in  the  place,  and  looked  round  at  the  smug 
and  varmint  citizens  with  whom  the  room  was  filled. 

''Hollo,  waiter,"  cried  Tringle,  "some  red  wine  negus — I 
know  not  why  it  is,  but  the  devil  himself  could  never  cure  me 
of  thirst.  Wine  and  I  have  a  most  chemical  attraction  for 
each  other.  You  know  that  we  always  estimate  the  force  of 
attraction  between  bodies  by  the  force  required  to  separate 
them  ! " 

While  we  were  all  three  as  noisy  and  nonsensical  as  our  best 
friends  could  have  wished  us,  a  new  stranger  entered,  ap- 
proached, looked  round  the  room  for  a  seat,  and  seeing  none, 
walked  leisurely  up  to  our  table,  and  accosted  me  with  a — 
"  Ha  !  Mr.  Pelham,  how  d'ye  do  ?  Well  met ;  by  your  leave  I 
will  sip  my  grog  at  your  table.  No  offence  I  hope — more  the 
merrier,  eh  ?  Waiter,  a  glass  of  hot  brandy  and  water — not 
too  weak.  D'ye  hear?" 

Need  I  say  that  this  pithy  and  pretty  address  proceeded  from 
the  mouth  of  Mr.  Tom  Thornton  ?  He  was  somewhat  more 
than  half  drunk,  and  his  light  prying  eyes  twinkled  dizzily  in 
his  head.  Dartmore,  who  was,  and  is,  the  best-natured  fellow 
alive,  hailed  the  signs  of  his  intoxication  as  a  sort  of  freema- 
sonry, and  made  way  for  him  beside  himself.  I  could  not  help 
remarking  that  Thornton  seemed  singularly  less  sleek  than 
heretofore  :  his  coat  was  out  at  the  elbows,  his  linen  was  torn 
and  soiled  ;  there  was  not  a  vestige  of  the  vulgar  spruceness 
about  him  which  was  formerly  one  of  his  most  prominent  char- 
acteristics. He  had  also  lost  a  great  deal  of  the  florid  health 
formerly  visible  in  his  face  ;  his  cheeks  seemed  sunk  and  hag- 
gard, his  eyes  hollow,  and  his  complexion  sallow  and  squalid, 
in  spite  of  the  flush  which  intemperance  spread  over  it  at  the 
moment.  However,  he  was  in  high  spirits,  and  soon  made  him- 
self so  entertaining  that  Dartmore  and  Tringle  grew  charmed 
with  him. 

As  for  me,  the  antipathy  I  had  to  the  man  sobered  and 
silenced  me  for  the  rest  of  the  night  ;  and  finding  that  Dart- 
more  and  his  friend  were  eager  for  an  introduction  to  some  fe- 
male friends  of  Thornton's,  whom  he  mentioned  in  terms  of 
high  praise,  I  tore  myself  from  them,  and  made  the  best  of  my 
way  home. 


194  PELHAM 


CHAPTER  LII. 

"  Illi  mors  gravis  incubat 
Qui,  notus  nimus  omnibus, 
Ignotus  moritur  sibi." — SENECA. 

"  Nous  serons  par  nos  lois  les  juges  des  ouvrages." — Les  Femmes  Savantes. 

"Whilst  we  do  speak,  our  fire 
Doth  into  ice  expire  ; 
Flames  turn  to  frost, 
And,  ere  we  can 
Know  how  our  crow  turns  swan, 
Or  how  a  silver  snow 
Springs  there,  wherejet  did  grow, 
Our  fading  spring  is  in  dull  winter  lost." — JASPAR  MAYNE. 

VINCENT  called  on  me  the  next  day.  "  I  have  news  for  you," 
said  he,  "  though  somewhat  of  a  lugubrious  nature.  Lugete 
Veneres  Cupidinesque  !  You  remember  the  Duchesse  de  Perpi- 
gnan?  " 

"  I  should  think  so,"  was  my  answer. 

"  Well,  then,"  pursued  Vincent,  "  she  is  no  more.  Her  death 
was  worthy  of  her  life.  She  was  to  give  a  brilliant  entertain- 
ment to  all  the  foreigners  at  Paris  :  the  day  before  it  took  place 
a  dreadful  eruption  broke  out  on  her  complexion.  She  sent 
for  the  doctors  in  despair.  '  Cure  me  against  to-morrow,'  she 
said,  'and  name  your  own  reward.'  'Madame,  it  is  impossible 
to  do  so  with  safety  to  your  health.'  '  Au  diable  with  your 
health  !'  said  the  Duchesse  ;  'what  is  health  to  an  eruption  ?' 
The  doctors  took  the  hint  ;  an  external  application  was  used  : 
the  Duchesse  woke  in  the  morning  as  beautiful  as  ever  ;  the  en- 
tertainment took  place — she  was  the  Armida  of  the  scene. 
Supper  was  announced.  She  took  the  arm  of  the ambas- 
sador, and  moved  through  the  crowd  amidst  the  audible  admi- 
ration of  all.  She  stopped  for  a  moment  at  the  door  ;  all  eyes 
were  upon  her.  A  fearful  and  ghastly  convulsion  passed  over 
her  countenance,  her  lips  trembled,  she  fell  on  the  ground  with 
the  most  terrible  contortions  of  face  and  frame.  They  carried 
her  to  bed.  She  remained  for  some  days  insensible  ;  when  she 
recovered  she  asked  for  a  looking-glass.  Her  whole  face  was 
drawn  on  one  side  ;  not  a  wreck  of  beauty  was  left — that  night 
she  poisoned  herself  !  " 

I  cannot  tell  how  shocked  I  was  at  this  information.  Much 
as  I  had  cause  to  be  disgusted  with  the  conduct  of  that  unhap- 
py woman,  I  could  find  in  my  mind  no  feeling  but  commiser- 


OR,  ADVENTURES   OF    A    GENTLEMAN.  105 

ation  and  horror  at  her  death  ;  and  it  was  with  great  difficulty 
that  Vincent  persuaded  me  to  accept  an  invitation  to  Lady 
Roseville's  for  the  evening,  to  meet  Glanville  and  himself. 

However,  I  cheered  up  as  the  night  came  on  ;  and  though 
my  mind  was  still  haunted  with  the  tale  of  the  morning,  it  was 
neither  in  a  musing  nor  a  melancholy  mood  that  I  entered 
the  drawing-room  at  Lady  Roseville's — "  So  runs  the  world 
away  !  " 

Glanville  was  there  in  his  customary  mourning. 

"  Pelham,"  he  said,  when  he  joined  me,  "  do  you  remember 

at  Lady 's  one  night,  I  said  I  would  introduce  you  to  my 

sister  ?  I  had  no  opportunity  then,  for  we  left  the  house 
before  she  returned  from  the  refreshment-room.  May  I  do  so 
now  ? " 

I  need  not  say  what  was  my  answer.  I  followed  Glanville 
into  the  next  room  ;  and,  to  my  inexpressible  astonishment 
and  delight,  discovered  in  his  sister  the  beautiful,  the  never- 
forgotten  stranger  I  had  seen  at  Cheltenham. 

For  once  in  my  life  I  was  embarrassed — my  bow  would  have 
shamed  a  major  in  the  line,  and  my  stuttered  and  irrelevant 
address  an  alderman  in  the  presence  of  His  Majesty.  How- 
ever, a  few  moments  sufficed  to  recover  me,  and  I  strained 
every  nerve  to  be  as  agreeable  as  possible. 

After  I  had  conversed  with  Lady  Glanville  for  some  time, 
Lady  Roseville  joined  us.  Stately  and  Juno-like  as  was  that 
charming  personage  in  general,  she  relaxed  into  a  softness  of 
manner  to  Miss  Glanville  that  quite  won  my  heart.  She  drew 
her  to  a  part  of  the  room  where  a  very  animated  and  chiefly 
literary  conversation  was  going  on — and  I,  resolving  to  make 
the  best  of  my  time,  followed  them,  and  once  more  found  my- 
self seated  beside  Miss  Glanville.  Lady  Roseville  was  on  the 
other  side  of  my  beautiful  companion  ;  and  I  observed  that, 
whenever  she  took  her  eyes  from  Miss  Glanville,  they  always 
rested  upon  her  brother,  who,  in  the  midst  of  the  disputation 
and  the  disputants,  sat  silent,  gloomy,  and  absorbed. 

The  conversation  turned  upon  Scott's  novels  ;  thence  on 
novels  in  general  ;  and  finally  on  the  particular  one  of  Anas- 
tasius. 

"It  is  a  thousand  pities,"  said  Vincent,  "that  the  scene  of 
that  novel  is  so  far  removed  from  us.  But  it  is  a  great  mis- 
fortune for  Hope  that — 

'  To  learning  he  narrowed  his  mind, 
And  gave  up  to  the  East  what  was  meant  for  mankind,' 


196  PELHAM; 

One  often  loses,  in  admiration  at  the  knowledge  of  peculiar 
costume,  the  deference  one  would  have  paid  to  the  masterly 
grasp  of  universal  character." 

"  It  must  require,"  said  Lady  Roseville,  "  an  extraordinary 
combination  of  mental  powers  to  produce  a  perfect  novel." 

"One  so  extraordinary,"  answered  Vincent,  "that,  though  we 
have  one  perfect  epic  poem,  and  several  which  pretend  to  per- 
fection, we  have  not  one  perfect  novel  in  the  world.  *  Gil  Bias 
approaches  more  to  perfection  than  any  other  ;  but  it  must  be 
confessed  that  there  is  a  want  of  dignity,  of  moral  rectitude, 
and  of  what  I  may  term  moral  beauty,  throughout  the  whole 
book.  If  an  author  could  combine  the  various  excellences 
of  Scott  and  Le  Sage,  with  a  greater  and  more  metaphysical 
knowledge  of  morals  than  either,  we  might  expect  from  him 
the  perfection  we  have  not  yet  discovered  since  the  days  of 
Apuleius." 

"Speaking  of  morals,"  said  Lady  Roseville,  "do  you  not 
think  every  novel  should  have  its  distinct  object,  and  inculcate, 
throughout,  some  one  peculiar  moral,  such  as  many  of  Mar- 
montel's  and  Miss  Edgeworth's  ?  " 

"  No  !  "  answered  Vincent ;  "  every  good  novel  has  one  great 
end — the  same  in  all — viz.,  the  increasing  our  knowledge  of 
the  heart.  It  is  thus  that  a  novel  writer  must  be  a  philoso- 
pher. Whoever  succeeds  in  showing  us  more  accurately  the 
nature  of  ourselves  and  species  has  done  science,  and,  conse- 
quently, virtue,  the  most  important  benefit  ;  for  every  truth  is  a 
moral.  This  great  and  universal  end,  I  am  led  to  imagine,  is 
rather  crippled  than  extended  by  the  rigorous  attention  to  the 
one  isolated  moral  you  mention. 

"Thus  Dryden,  in  his  Essay  on  the  Progress  of  Satire,  very 
rightly  prefers  Horace  to  Juvenal,  so  far  as  instruction  is  con- 
cerned ;  because  the  miscellaneous  satires  of  the  former  are 
directed  against  every  vice — the  more  confined  ones  of  the 
latter  (for  the  most  part)  only  against  one.  All  mankind  is  the 
field  the  novelist  should  cultivate — all  truth,  the  moral  he  should 
strive  to  bring  home.  It  is  in  occasional  dialogue,  in  desultory 
maxims,  in  deductions  from  events,  in  analysis  of  character, 
that  he  should  benefit  and  instruct.  It  is  not  enough — and  I 
wish  a  certain  novelist  who  has  lately  arisen  would  remember 
this — it  is  not  enough  for  a  writer  to  have  a  good  heart,  amiable 
sympathies,  and  what  are  termed  high  feelings,  in  order  to 
shape  out  a  moral,  either  true  in  itself,  or  beneficial  in  its  incul- 

*  For  Don  Quixote  is  not  what  Lord  Vincent  terms  a  novel,  viz.,  the  actual  representation 
cf  real  lift. 


OR,  ADVENTURES   OF    A    GENTLEMAN.  197 

cation.  Before  he  touches  his  tale,  he  should  be  thoroughly 
acquainted  with  the  intricate  science  of  morals,  and  the  meta- 
physical, as  well  as  the  more  open,  operations  of  the  mind.  If 
his  knowledge  is  not  deep  and  clear,  his  love  of  the  good  may 
only  lead  him  into  error  ;  and  he  may  pass  off  the  prejudices 
of  a  susceptible  heart  for  the  precepts  of  virtue.  Would  to 
Heaven  that  people  would  think  it  necessary  to  be  instructed 
before  they  attempt  to  instruct !  '  Dire  simplement  que  la  vertu 
esf  vertu  parce  quelle  est  bonne  en  son  fonds,  et  le  vice  tout  au  con- 
traire,  ce  nest  pas  les  faire  connoitre?  For  me,  if  I  were  to 
write  a  novel,  I  would  first  make  myself  an  acute,  active,  and 
vigilant  observer  of  men  and  manners.  Secondly,  I  would, 
after  having  thus  noted  effects  by  action  in  the  world,  trace  the 
causes  by  books,  and  meditation  in  my  closet.  It  is  then,  and 
not  till  then,  that  I  would  study  the  lighter  graces  of  style  and 
decoration  ;  nor  would  I  give  the  rein  to  invention,  till  I  was 
convinced  that  it  would  create  neither  monsters,  of  men,  nor 
falsities,  of  truth.  For  my  vehicles  of  instruction  or  amuse- 
ment I  would  have  people  as  they  are — neither  worse  nor  bet- 
ter— and  the  moral  they  should  convey  should  be  rather  through 
jest  or  irony,  than  gravity  and  seriousness.  There  never  was 
an  imperfection  corrected  by  portraying  perfection  ;  and  if 
levity  and  ridicule  be  said  so  easily  to  allure  to  sin,  I  do  not 
see  why  they  should  not  be  used  in  defence  of  virtue.  Of  this 
we  may  be  sure,  that  as  laughter  is  a  distinct  indication  of  the 
human  race,  so  there  never  was  a  brute  mind  or  a  savage  heart 
that  loved  to  indulge  in  it."* 

Vincent  ceased. 

"Thank  you,  my  lord,"  said  Lady  Roseville,  as  she  took 
Miss  Glanville's  arm  and  moved  from  the  table.  "For  once 
you  have  condescended  to  give  us  your  own  sense,  and  not 
other  people's ;  you  have  scarce  made  a  single  quotation." 

"  Accept,"  answered  Vincent,  rising, 

"  '  Accept  a  miracle  instead  of  wit.' " 

*  The  Sage  of  Malmesbury  expresses  a  very  different  opinion  of  the  philosophy  of 
laughter,  and,  for  my  part,  I  think  his  doctrine  in 'great  measure,  though  not  altogether — 
true.  See  "  Hobbcs  on  Human  Nature,"  and  the  answer  to  him  in  '•  Campbells  Rhet~ 
trie" — AUTHOR. 


198  PELHAM  ; 


CHAPTER  LIII. 

"  Oh  !  I  love  !     Methinks 
This  word  of  love  is  fit  for  all  the  world, 
And  that,  for  gentle  hearts,  another  name 
Shonld  speak  of  gentler  thoughts  than  the  world  owns." 

— P.  B.  SHELLEY. 

"  For  me,  I  ask  no  more  than  honor  gives, 
To  think  me  yours,  and  rank  me  with  your  friends." 

— SHAKSPEARE. 

CALLOUS  and  worldly  as  I  may  seem,  from  the  tone  of  these 
memoirs,  I  can  say,  safely,  that  one  of  the  most  delicious 
evenings  I  ever  spent  was  the  first  of  my  introduction  to  Miss 
Glanville.  I  went  home  intoxicated  with  a  subtle  spirit  of  en- 
joyment that  gave  a  new  zest  and  freshness  to  life.  Two  little 
hours  seemed  to  have  changed  the  whole  course  of  my  thoughts 
and  feelings. 

There  was  nothing  about  Miss  Glanville  like  a  heroine — I 
hate  your  heroines.  She  had  none  of  that  "modest  ease,"  and 
"quiet  dignity,"  of  which  certain  writers  speak  with  such  ap- 
plause. Thank  heaven,  she  was  alive !  She  had  great  sense, 
but  the  playfulness  of  a  child  ;  extreme  rectitude  of  mind,  but 
with  the  tenderness  of  a  gazelle ;  if  she  laughed,  all  her  coun- 
tenance, lips,  eyes,  forehead,  cheeks,  laughed  too  :  "  Paradise 
seemed  opened  in  her  face"  :  if  she  looked  grave,  it  was  such 
a  lofty  and  upward,  yet  sweet  and  gentle  gravity,  that  you 
might  (had  you  been  gifted  with  the  least  imagination)  have 
supposed,  from  the  model  of  her  countenance,  a  new  order  of 
angels  between  the  cherubim  and  the  seraphim,  the  angels  of 
Love  and  Wisdom.  She  was  not,  perhaps,  quite  so  silent  in 
society  as  my  individual  taste  would  desire  ;  but  when  she 
spoke,  it  was  with  a  propriety  of  thought  and  diction  which 
made  me  lament  when  her  voice  had  ceased.  It  was  as  if 
something  beautiful  in  creation  had  stopped  suddenly. 

Enough  of  this  now.  I  was  lazily  turning  (the  morning 
after  Lady  Roseville's)  over  some  old  books,  when  Vincent 
entered.  I  observed  that  his  face  was  flushed,  and  his  eyes 
sparkled  with  more  than  their  usual  brilliancy.  He  looked 
carefully  round  the  room,  and  then,  approaching  his  chair 
towards  mine,  said,  in  a  low  tone  : 

"  Pelham,  I  have  something  of  importance  on  my  mind 
which  I  wish  to  discuss  with  you ;  but  let  me  entreat  you  to 
lay  aside  your  usual  levity,  and  pardon  me  if  I  say  affectation ; 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          199 

meet  me  with  the  candor  and  plainness  which  are  the  real  dis- 
tinctions of  your  character." 

"My  Lord  Vincent,"  I  replied,  "there  are,  in  your  words,  a 

depth  and  solemnity  which  pierce  me,  through  one  of  N 's 

best  stuffed  coats,  even  to  the  very  heart.  I  will  hear  you 
as  you  desire,  from  the  alpha  to  the  omega  of  your  discourse." 

"  My  dear  friend,"  said  Vincent,  "  I  have  often  seen  that, 
in  spite  of  all  your  love  of  pleasure,  you  have  your  mind  con- 
tinually turned  towards  higher  and  graver  objects  ;  and  I 
have  thought  the  better  of  your  talents,  and  of  your  future 
success,  for  the  little  parade  you  make  of  the  one,  and  the 
little  care  you  appear  to  pay  to  the  other  ;  for 

'  'tis  a  common  proof. 
That  lowliness  is  young  Ambition's  ladder.' 

I  have  also  observed  that  you  have,  of  late,  been  much  to 
Lord  Dawton's  ;  I  have  even  heard  that  you  have  been  twice 
closeted  with  him.  It  is  well  known  that  that  person  enter- 
tains hopes  of  leading  the  opposition  to  the  grata  arva  of  the 
Treasury  benches  ;  and  notwithstanding  the  years  in  which  the 
Whigs  have  been  out  of  office,  there  are  some  persons  who  pre- 
tend to  foresee  the  chance  of  a  coalition  between  them  and  Mr. 
Gaskell,  to  whose  principles  it  is  also  added  that  they  have 
been  gradually  assimilating." 

Here  Vincent  paused  a  moment,  and  looked  full  at  me.  I 
met  his  eye  with  a  glance  as  searching  as  his  own.  His  look 
changed,  and  he  continued  : 

"  Now  listen  to  me,  Pelham  ;  such  a  coalition  never  can 
take  place.  You  smile ;  I  repeat  it.  It  is  my  object  to  form 
a  third  party  ;  perhaps,  while  the  two  great  sects  '  anticipate 
the  cabinet  designs  of  fate,'  there  may  suddenly  come  by  a 
third,  '  to  whom  the  whole  shall  be  referred.'  Say  that  you 
think  it  not  impossible  that  you  may  join  us,  and  I  will  tell 
you  more." 

I  paused  for  three  minutes  before1  I  answered  Vincent.  I 
then  said  :  "  I  thank  you  very  sincerely  for  your  proposal  ; 
tell  me  the  names  of  two  of  your  designed  party,  and  I  will 
answer  you." 

"  Lord  Lincoln  and  Lord  Lesborough." 

"What,"  said  I  ;  "the  Whig  who  says  in  the  Upper  House 
that  whatever  may  be  the  distresses  of  the  people,  they  shall 
not  be  gratified  at  the  cost  of  one  of  the  despotic  privileges  of 
the  aristocracy.  Go  to  !  I  will  have  none  of  him.  As  to 
Lesborough,  he  is  a  fool  and  a  boaster — who  is  always  puffing 


200  PELHAM  J 

his  own  vanity  with  the  windiest  pair  of  oratorical  bellows 
that  ever  were  made  by  air  and  brass,  for  the  purpose  of  sound 
and  smoke,  '  signifying  nothing.'  Go  to  !  I  will  have  none 
of  him  either." 

"You  are  right  in  your  judgment  of  my  confreres"  answered 
Vincent ;  "  but  we  must  make  use  of  bad  tools  for  good  pur- 
poses." 

"  NO — no !  "  said  I  ;  "  the  commonest  carpenter  will  tell 
you  the  reverse." 

Vincent  eyed  me  suspiciously.  "  Look  you  !  "  said  he  :  "  I 
know  well  that  no  man  loves,  better  than  you,  place,  power, 
and  reputation.  Do  you  grant  this  ?  " 

"I  do,"  was  my  reply. 

"  Join  with  us  ;  I  will  place  you  in  the  House  of  Commons 
immediately  ;  if  we  succeed  you  shall  have  the  first  and  the 
best  post  I  can  give  you.  Now — '  under  which  king,  Bezo- 
nian,  speak  or  die  !  ' ' 

"  I  answer  you  in  the  words  of  the  same  worthy  you  quote," 
said  I  ;  <r'  A  foutra  for  thine  office.'  Do  you  know,  Vincent, 
that  I  have,  strange  as  it  may  seem  to  you,  such  a  thing  as  a 
conscience  ?  It  is  true  I  forget  it  now  and  then  ;  but  in  a 
public  capacity,  the  recollection  of  others  would  put  me  very 
soon  in  mind  of  it.  I  know  your  party  well.  I  cannot  im- 
agine— forgive  me — one  more  injurious  to  the  country,  nor 
one  more  revolting  to  myself  ;  and  I  do  positively  affirm  that 
I  would  sooner  feed  my  poodle  on  paunch  and  liver,  instead 
of  cream  and  fricassee,  than  be  an  instrument  in  the  hands  of 
men  like  Lincoln  and  Lesborough  ;  who  talk  much,  who  per- 
form nothing  ;  who  join  ignorance  of  every  principle  of  legis- 
lation to  indifference  for  every  benefit  to  the  people  ;  who  are 
full  of  '  wise  saws,'  but  empty  of  '  modern  instances  ' ;  who 
level  upwards,  and  trample  downwards,  and  would  only  value 
the  ability  you  are  pleased  to  impute  to  me,  in  the  exact  pro- 
portion that  a  sportsman  values  the  ferret,  that  burrows  for 
his  pleasure,  and  destroys  for  his  interest.  Your/tar/y  can't 
stand!" 

Vincent  turned  pale  :  "  And  how  long,"  said  he,  "have  you 
learnt  '  the  principles  of  legislation,'  and  this  mighty  affection 
for  the  '  benefit  of  the  people  ? '  " 

"  Ever  since,"  said  I.  coldly,  "  I  learnt  any  thing  !  The  first 
piece  of  real  knowledge  I  ever  gained  was,  that  my  interest 
was  incorporated  with  that  of  the  beings  with  whom  I  had  the 
chance  of  being  cast:  if  I  injure  them,  I  injure  myself ;  if  I 
dp  them  any  good,  I  receive  the  benefit  in  goromon  with 


Oft,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         2OI 

the  rest.  Now,  as  I  have  a  great  love  for  that  personage  who 
has  now  the  honor  of  addressing  you,  I  resolved  to  be  honest 
for  his  sake.  So  much  for  my  affection  for  the  benefit  of  the 
•people.  As  to  the  little  knowledge  of  the  principles  of  legisla- 
tion, on  which  you  are  kind  enough  to  compliment  me,  look 
over  the  books  on  this  table,  or  the  writings  in  this  desk,  and 
know,  that  ever  since  I  had  the  misfortune  of  parting  from  you 
at  Cheltenham,  there  has  not  been  a  day  in  which  I  have  spent 
less  than  six  hours  reading  and  writing  on  that  sole  subject. 
But  enough  of  this — will  you  ride  to-day?" 
Vincent  rose  slowly  : 

"  '  Gli  arditi  (said  he)  tuoi  voti 
Gi&  noti  mi  sono  ; 
Ma  invano  a  quel  trono, 
Tu  aspiri  con  me  : 
Trema  per  te  ! '  " 

"'  lo  trema'  (I  replied  out  of  the  same  opera)  ;  '/<?  trema — 
dite!'" 

"Well,"  answered  Vincent,  and  his  fine  high  nature  overcame 
his  momentary  resentment  and  chagrin  at  my  rejection  of  his 
offer ;  "  Well,  I  honor  you  for  your  sentiments,  though  they 
are  opposed  to  my  own.  I  may  depend  on  your  secrecy  ? " 

"  You  may,"  said  I. 

"I  forgive  you,  Pelham,"  rejoined  Vincent:  "we  part 
friends." 

"Wait  one  moment,"  said  I,  "and  pardon  me,  if  I  venture 
to  speak  in  the  language  of  caution  to  one  in  every  way  so 
superior  to  myself.  No  one  (I  say  this  with  a  safe  conscience, 
for  I  never  flattered  my  friend  in  my  life,  though  I  have  often 
adulated  my  enemy) — no  one  has  a  greater  admiration  for 
your  talents  than  myself  ;  I  desire  eagerly  to  see  you  in  the 
station  most  fit  for  their  display  ;  pause  one  moment  before 
you  link  yourself,  not  only  to  a  party,  but  to  principles,  that 
cannot  stand.  You  have  only  to  exert  yourself,  and  you  may 
either  lead  the  opposition,  or  be  among  the  foremost  in  the 
administration.  Take  something  certain,  rather  than  what  is 
doubtful  :  or  at  least  stand  alone  :  such  is  my  belief  in  your 
powers,  if  fairly  tried,  that  if  you  were  not  united  to  those  men, 
I  would  promise  you  faithfully  to  stand  or  fall  by  you  alone, 
even  if  we  had  not  through  all  England  another  soldier  to  our 
standard  ;  but — " 

"I  thank  you,  Pelham,"  said  Vincent,  interrupting  me  :  "till 
we  meet  in  public  as  enemies,  we  are  friends  in  private--! 
desire  no'  more.  Farewell." 


*02  tELHAM  J 


CHAPTER  LIV. 

"  II  vaut  mieux  employer  notre  esprit  &  supporter  les  infortunes  qui  nous 
arrivent,  qu'i  prevoir  celles  qui  nous  peuvent  arriver. " — ROCHEFOUCAULD. 

No  sooner  had  Vincent  departed  than  I  buttoned  my  coat 
and  sallied  out  through  a  cold  easterly  wind  to  Lord  Dawton's. 
It  was  truly  said  by  the  political  quoter,  that  I  had  been  often 
to  that  nobleman's,  although  I  have  not  thought  it  advisable  to 
speak  of  my  political  adventures  hitherto.  I  have  before  said 
that  I  was  ambitious  ;  and  the  sagacious  have  probably  al- 
ready discovered  that  I  was  somewhat  less  ignorant  than  it 
was  my  usual  pride  and  pleasure  to  appear.  I  had  established, 
among  my  uncle's  friends,  a  reputation  for  talent ;  and  no 
sooner  had  I  been  personally  introduced  to  Lord  Dawton,  than 
I  found  myself  courted  by  that  personage  in  a  manner  equally 
gratifying  and  uncommon.  When  I  lost  my  seat  in  Parlia- 
ment, Dawton  assured  me  that,  before  the  session  was  over,  I 
should  be  returned  for  one  of  his  boroughs  ;  and  though  my 
mind  revolted  at  the  idea  of  becoming  dependent  on  any  party,  I 
made  little  scruple  of  promising  conditionally  to  ally  myself  to 
his.  So  far  had  affairs  gone,  when  I  was  honored  with  Vin- 
cent's proposal.  I  found  Lord  Dawton  in  his  library,  with 
the  Marquis  of  Clandonald  (Lord  Dartmore's  father,  and,  from 
his  rank  and  property,  classed  among  the  highest,  as,  from  his 
vanity  and  restlessness,  he  was  among  the  most  active  mem- 
bers of  the  Opposition).  Clandonald  left  the  room  when  I 
entered.  Few  men  in  office  are  wise  enough  to  trust  the  young  ; 
as  if  the  greater  zeal  and  sincerity  of  youth  did  not  more 
than  compensate  for  its  appetite  for  the  gay,  or  its  thoughtless- 
ness of  the  serious. 

When  we  were  alone,  Dawton's  aid  to  me  :  "  We  are  in  great 

despair  at  the  motion  upon  the ,  to  be  made  in  the  Lower 

House.  We  have  not  a  single  person  whom  we  can  depend 
upon,  for  the  sweeping  and  convincing  answer  we  ought  to 
make;  and  though  we  should  at  least  muster  our  full  force  in 

voting,  our  whipper-in,  poor ,  is  so  ill,  that  I  fear  we  shall 

make  but  a  very  pitiful  figure." 

"  Give  me,"  said  I,  "  full  permission  to  go  forth  into  the 
highways  and  byways,  and  I  will  engage  to  bring  a  whole 
legion  of  dandies  to  the  House  door.  I  can  go  no  farther  ; 
your  other  agents  must  do  the  rest." 

"Thank  you,  my  dear  young  friend,"  said  Lord  Dawton 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         203 

eagerly  ;  "  thank  you  a  thousand  times  :  we  must  really  get  you 
in  the  House  as  soon  as  possible  ;  you  will  serve  us  more  than 
I  can  express." 

I  bowed  with  a  sneer  I  could  not  repress.  Dawton  pretend- 
ed not  to  observe  it.  "  Come,"  said  I,  "  my  lord,  we  have  no 
time  to  lose.  I  shall  meet  you,  perhaps,  at  Brookes's,  to-mor- 
row evening,  and  report  to  you  respecting  my  success." 

Lord  Dawton  pressed  my  hand  warmly,  and  followed  me  to 
the  door. 

"He  is  the  best  premier  we  could  have,"  thought  I;  "but 
he  deceives  himself,  if  he  thinks  Henry  Pelham  will  play  the 
jackal  to  his  lion.  He  will  soon  see  that  I  shall  keep  for  my- 
self what  he  thinks  I  hunt  for  him."  I  passed  through  Pall 
Mall,  and  thought  of  Glanville.  I  knocked  at  his  door  :  he 
was  at  home.  1  found  him  leaning  his  cheek  upon  his  hand, 
in  a  thoughtful  position  ;  an  open  letter  was  before  him. 

"Read  that,"  he  said,  pointing  to  it. 

I  did  so.  It  was  from  the  agent  to  the  Duke  of ,  and 

contained  his  nomination  to  an  opposition  borough. 

"A  new  toy,  Pelham,"  said  he,  faintly  smiling  ;  "but  a  little 
longer,  and  they  will  all  be  broken — the  rattle  will  be  the  last." 

"My  dear,  dear  Glanville,"  said  I,  much  affected,  "do  not 
talk 'thus;  you  have  everything  before  you." 

"Yes,"  interrupted  Glanville,  "you  are  right,  for  everything 
left  for  me  is  in  the  grave.  Do  you  imagine  that  I  can  taste 
one  of  the  possessions  which  fortune  has  heaped  upon  me  ; 
that  I  have  one  healthful  faculty,  one  sense  of  enjoyment, 
among  the  hundred  which  other  men  are 'heirs  to'?  When 
did  you  ever  see  me  for  a  moment  happy  ?  I  live,  as  it  were, 
on  a  rock,  barren,  and  herbless,  and  sapless,  and  cut  off  from 
all  human  fellowship  and  intercourse.  I  had  only  a  single 
object  left  to  live  for,  when  you  saw  me  at  Paris  ;  I  have 
gratified  that,  and  the  end  and  purpose  of  my  existence  is  ful- 
filled. Heaven  is  merciful ;  but  a  little  while,  and  this  fever- 
ish and  unquiet  spirit  shall  be  at  rest." 

I  took  his  hand  and  pressed  it. 

"Feel, "said  he,  "this  dry,  burning  skin;  count  my  putee 
through  the  variations  of  a  single  minute,  and  you  will  cease  either 
to  pity  me  or  to  speak  to  me  of  life.  For  months  I  have  had, 
night  and  day,  a  wasting — wasting  fever,  of  brain,  and  heart, 
and  frame  ;  the  fire  works  well,  and  the  fuel  is  nearly  con- 
sumed." 

He  paused,  and  we  were  both  silent.  In  fact,  I  was  shocked 
at  the  fever  of  his  pulse,  no  less  than  affected  at  the  de- 


204  PELHAM  ; 

spondency  of  his  words.  At  last  I  spoke  to  him  of  medical 
advice. 

"  '  Canst  thou,' "  he  said,  with  a  deep  solemnity  of  voice  and 
manner,  "  '  administer  to  a  mind  diseased — pluck  from  the 
memory  ' Ah  !  away  with  the  quotation  and  the  reflec- 
tion." And  he  sprang  from  the  sofa,  and,  going  to  the  window, 
opened  it,  and  leaned  out  for  a  few  moments  in  silence.  When 
he  turned  again  towards  me,  his  manner  had  regained  its  usual 
quiet.  He  spoke  about  the  important  motion  approaching  on 

the ,  and  promised  to  attend  ;  and  then,  by  degrees,  I  led 

him  to  talk  of  his  sister. 

He  mentioned  her  with  enthusiasm.  "  Beautiful  as  Ellen 
is,"  he  said,  "  her  face  is  the  very  faintest  reflection  of  her 
mind.  Her  habits  of  thought  are  so  pure  that  every  impulse 
is  a  virtue.  Never  was  there  a  person  to  whom  goodness  was  so 
easy.  Vice  seems  something  so  opposite  to  her  nature  that  I 
cannot  imagine  it  possible  for  her  to  sin." 

"  Will  you  not  call  with  me  at  your  mother's  ?  "  said  I.  "  I 
am  going  there  to-day." 

Glanville  replied  in  the  affirmative,  and  we  went  at  once  to 
Lady  Glanville's  in  Berkeley  Square.  We  were  admitted  into 
his  mother's  boudoir.  She  was  alone  with  Miss  Glanville.  Our 
conversation  soon  turned  from  commonplace  topics  to  those  bf  a 
graver  nature  ;  the  deep  melancholy  of  Glanville's  mind  imbued 
all  his  thoughts,  when  he  once  suffered  himself  to  express  them. 

"Why,"  said  Lady  Glanville,  who  seemed  painfully  fond  of 
her  son — "  Why  do  you  not  go  more  into  the  world  ?  You 
suffer  your  mind  to  prey  upon  itself,  till  it  destroys  you.  My 
dear,  dear  son,  how  very  ill  you  seem  !  " 

Ellen,  whose  eyes  swam  in  tears,  as  they  gazed  upon  her 
brother,  laid  her  beautiful  hand  upon  his,  and  said,  "For  my 
mother's  sake,  Reginald,  do  take  more  care  of  yourself :  you 
want  air,  and  exercise,  and  amusement." 

"  No,"  answered  Glanville,  "  I  want  nothing  but  occupation  ; 

and,  thanks  to  the  Duke  of ,  I  have  now  got  it.  I  am 

chosen  member  for ." 

"I  am  too  happy,"  said  the  proud  mother;  "you  will  now  be  all 
I  have  ever  predicted  for  you  "  ;  and,  in  her  joy  at  the  moment, 
she  forgot  the  hectic  of  his  cheek  and  the  hollowness  of  his  eye. 

"  Do  you  remember,"  said  Reginald,  turning  to  his  sister, 
"  those  beautiful  lines  in  my  favorite  Ford  : 

1  Glories 

Of  human  greatness  are  but  pleasing  dreams, 
And  shadows  soon  decaying.     On  the  stage 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         iO$ 

Of  my  mortality,  my  youth  has  acted 
Some  scenes  of  vanity,  drawn  out  at  length 
By  varied  pleasures — sweetened  in  the  mixture, 
But  tragical  in  issue.     Beauty,  pomp, 
With  every  sensuality  our  giddiness 
Doth  frame  an  idol — are  inconstant  friends 
When  any  troubled  passion  makes- us  halt 
On  the  unguarded  castle  of  the  mind.'" 

"Your  verses,"  said  I,  "are  beautiful,  even  to  me,  who  have 
no  soul  for  poetry,  and  never  wrote  a  line  in  my  life.  But  I 
love  not  their  philosophy.  In  all  sentiments  that  are  impreg- 
nated with  melancholy,  and  instil  sadness  as  a  moral,  I  question 
the  wisdom,  and  dispute  the  truth.  There  is  no  situation  in 
life  which  we  cannot  sweeten,  or  embitter,  at  will.  If  the  past 
is  gloomy,  I  do  not  see  the  necessity  of  dwelling  upon  it.  If 
the  mind  can  make  one  vigorous  exertion,  it  can  another:  the 
same  energy  you  put  forth  in  acquiring  knowledge  would  also 
enable  you  to  baffle  misfortune.  Determine  not  to  think  upon 
what  is  painful ;  resolutely  turn  away  from  everything  that 
recalls  it ;  bend  all  your  attention  to  some  new  and  engrossing 
object ;  do  this,  and  you  defeat  the  past.  You  smile  as  if  this 
were  impossible  ;  yet  it  is  not  an  iota  more  so  than  to  tear 
oneself  from  a  favorite  pursuit,  and  addict  oneself  to  an  object 
unwelcome  to  one  at  first.  This  the  mind  does  continually 
through  life  ;  so  can  it  also  do  the  other,  if  you  will  but  make 
an  equal  exertion.  Nor  does  it  seem  to  me  natural  to  the 
human  heart  to  look  much  to  the  past ;  all  its  plans,  its  projects, 
its  aspirations,  are  for  the  future  ;  it  is  for  the  future,  and  /'// 
the  future,  that  we  live.  Our  very  passions,  when  most  agitated, 
are  most  anticipative.  Revenge,  avarice,  ambition,  love,  the 
desire  of  good -and  evil,  are  all  fixed  and  pointed  to  some 
distant  goal ;  to  look  backwards,  is  like  walking  backwards — 
against  our  proper  formation  :  the  mind  does  not  readily  adopt 
the  habit,  and  when  once  adopted,  it  will  readily  return  to  it-s 
natural  bias.  Oblivion  is,  therefore,  a  more  easily  obtained 
boon  than  we  imagine.  Forgetfulness  of  the  past  is  purchased 
by  increasing  our  anxiety  for  the  future." 

I  paused  for  a  moment,  but  Glanville  did  not  answer  me  ; 
and,  encouraged  by  a  look  from  Ellen,  I  continued  :  "  You 
remember  that,  according  to  an  old  creed,  if  we  were  given 
memory  as  a  curse,  we  were  also  given  hope  as  a  blessing. 
Counteract  the  one  by  the  other.  In  my  own  life,  I  have  com- 
mitted many  weak,  perhaps  many  wicked,  actions;  I  have 
chased  away  their  remembrance,  though  I  have  transplanted 
their  warning  to  the  future.  As  the  body  involuntarily  avoids 


206  FELHAM  | 

what  is  hurtful  to  it,  without  tracing  the  association  to  its  first 
experience,  so  the  mind  insensibly  shuns  what  has  formerly 
afflicted  it,  even  without  palpably  recalling  the  remembrance 
of  the  affliction. 

"  The  Roman  philosopher  placed  the  secret  of  human  happi- 
ness in  the  one  maxim — 'not  to  admire.'  I  never  could 
exactly  comprehend  the  sense  of  the  moral ;  my  maxim  for  the 
same  object  would  be — 'never  to  regret.' " 

"Alas!  my  dear  friend,"  said  Glanville,  "we  are  great 
philosophers  to  each  other,  but  not  to  ourselves  ;  the  moment 
we  begin  to  feel  sorrow,  we  cease  to  reflect  on  its  wisdom. 
Time  is  the  only  comforter  ;  your  maxims  are  very  true,  but 
they  confirm  me  in  my  opinion — that  it  is  in  vain  for  us  to  lay 
down  fixed  precepts  for  the  regulation  of  the  mind,  so  long  as 
it  is  dependent  upon  the  body.  Happiness  and  its  reverse  are 
constitutional  in  many  persons,  and  it  is  then  only  that  they 
are  independent  of  circumstances.  Make  the  health,  the 
frames  of  all  men,  alike ;  make  their  nerves  of  the  same 
susceptibility  ;  their  memories  of  the  same  bluntness,  or  acute- 
ness,  and  I  will  then  allow  that  you  can  give  rules  adapted  to 
all  men  ;  till  then,  your  maxim,  'never  to  regret,'  is  as  idle  as 
Horace's  'never  to  admire.'  It  may  be  wise  to  you,  it  is  im- 
possible to  me ! " 

With  these  last  words  Glanville's  voice  faltered,  and  I  felt 
averse  to  push  the  argument  further.  Ellen's  eye  caught  mine, 
and  gave  me  a  look  so  kind,  and  almost  grateful,  that  I  forgot 
everything  else  in  the  world.  A  few  moments  afterwards  a 
friend  of  Lady  Glanville's  was  announced,  and  I  left  the  room. 


CHAPTER  LV. 

"  Intus,  et  in  jecore  segro, 
Nascunlur  domini." — PERSIUS. 

THE  next  two  or  three  days  I  spent  in  visiting  all  my  male 
friends  in  the  Lower  House,  and  engaging  them  to  dine  with 

me,  preparatorily  to  the  great  act  of  voting  on 's  motion.     I 

led  them  myself  to  the  House  of  Commons,  and  not  feeling 
sufficiently  interested  in  the  debate  to  remain,  as  a  stranger, 
where  I  ought,  in  my  own  opinion,  to  have  acted  as  a  performer, 
I  went  to  Brookes's  to  wait  the  result.  Lord  Gravelton,  a 
stout,  bluff,  six-foot  nobleman,  with  a  voice  like  a  Stentor,  was 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         2Of 

"  blowing  up  "  the  waiters  in  the  coffee-room.  Mr. ,  the 

author  of ,  was  conning  the  Courier  in  a  corner  ;  and  Lord 

Armadilleros,  the  haughtiest  and  most  honorable  peer  in  the 
calendar,  was  monopolizing  the  drawing-room,  with  his  right 
foot  on'one  hob  and  his  left  on  the  other.  I  sat  myself  down 
in  silence,  and  looked  over  the  "  crack  article  "  in  the  Edin- 
burgh. By  and  by  the  room  got  fuller  ;  every  one  spoke  of  the 
motion  before  the  House,  and  anticipated  the  merits  of  the 
speeches,  and  the  numbers  of  the  voters. 

At  last  a  principal  member  entered — a  crowd  gathered  round 
him.  "  I  have  heard,"  he  said, "  the  most  extraordinary  speech, 
for  the  combination  of  knowledge  and  imagination,  that  I  ever 
recollect  to  have  listened  too." 

"  From  Gaskell,  I  suppose  ? "    was  the  universal  cry. 

"No,"  said  Mr. ,  "  Gaskell  has  not  yet  spoken.  It  was 

from  a  young  man  who  has  only  just  taken  his  seat.  It  was 
received  with  the  most  unanimous  cheers,  and  was,  indeed,  a 
remarkable  display." 

"  What  is  his  name?"  I  asked,  already  half  foreboding  the 
answer. 

"  I  only  just  learnt  it  as  I  left  the  House,"  replied  Mr. ; 

"  the  speaker  was  Sir  Reginald  Glanville." 

Then,  every  one  of  those  whom  I  had  often  before  heard 
censure  Glanville  for  his  rudeness,  or  laugh  at  him  for  his  ec- 
centricity, opened  their  mouths  in  congratulations  to  their  own 
wisdom,  for  having  long  admired  his  talents  and  predicted  his 
success. 

I  left  the  "  turbo,  Remi  sequens  fortunam  "/  I  felt  agitated 
and  feverish  ;  those  who  have  unexpectedly  heard  of  the 
success  of  a  man  for  whom  great  affection  is  blended  with 
greater  interest,  can  understand  the  restlessness  of  mind  with 
which  I  wandered  into  the  streets.  The  air  was  cold  and  nip- 
ping. I  was  buttoning  my  coat  round  my  chest,  when  I  heard 
a  voice  say  :  "  You  have  dropped  your  glove,  Mr.  Pelham." 

The  speaker  was  Thornton.  I  thanked  him  coldly  for  his 
civility,  and  was  going  on,  when  he  said  :  "  If  your  way  is  up 
Pall  Mall,  I  have  no  objection  to  join  you  for  a  few  minutes." 

I  bowed  with  some  hauteur /  but  as  I  seldom  refuse  any 
opportunity  of  knowing  more  perfectly  individual  character,  I 
said  I  should  be  happy  of  his  company  so  long  as  our  way  lay 
together. 

"  It  is  a  cold  night,  Mr.  Pelham,"  said  Thornton,  after  a 
pause.  "I  have  been  dining  at  Hatchett's  with  an  old  Paris 
acquaintance :  I  am  sorry  we  did  not  meet  more  often  in 


France,  but  I  was  so  taken  up  with  my  friend  Mr.  Warburton." 
As  Thornton  uttered  that  name,  he  looked  hard  at  me,  and 
then  added  :  "  By  the  by,  I  saw  you  with  Sir  Reginald  Glan- 
ville  the  other  day  ;  you  know  him  well,  I  presume?" 

"  Tolerably  well,"  said  I,  with  indifference. 

"  What  a  strange  character  he  is,"  rejoined  Thornton  ;  "  / 
also  have  known  him  for  some  years,"  and  again  Thornton 
looked  pryingly  into  my  countenance.  Poor  fool !  it  was  not  for 
a  penetration  like  his  to  read  the  cor  inscrutable  of  a  man  born, 
and  bred  like  me  in  the  consummate  dissimulation  oi.bon  ton. 

"  He  is  very  rich,  is  he  not  ? "  said  Thornton,  after  a  brief 
silence. 

"  I  believe  so,"  said  I. 

"  Humph  !  "  answered  Thornton.  "  Things  have  grown 
better  with  him,  in  proportion  as  they  grew  worse  with  me, 
who  have  had  'as  good  luck  as  the  cow  that  stuck  herself  with 
her  own  horn.'  I  suppose  he  is  not  too  anxious  to  recollect 
me — 'poverty  parts  fellowship.'  Well,  hang  pride,  say  I  ; 
give  me  an  honest  heart  all  the  year  round,  in  summer  or 
winter,  drought  or  plenty.  Would  to  Heaven  some  kind  friend 
would  lend  me  twenty  pounds  !  " 

To  this  wish  I  made  no  reply.     Thornton  sighed. 

"  Mr.  Pelhain,"  renewed  he,  "  it  is  true  I  have  known  you 
but  a  short  time — excuse  the  liberty  I  take — but  if  you  could 
lend  me  a  trifle,  it  would  really  assist  rne  very  much." 

"  Mr.  Thornton,"  said  I,  "  if  I  knew  you  better,  and  could 
serve  you  more,  you  might  apply  to  me  for  a  more  real 
assistance  than  any  bagatelle  I  could  afford  you  would  be.  If 
twenty  pounds  would  really  be  of  service  to  you,  I  will  lend 
them  to  you,  upon  this  condition,  that  you  never  ask  me  for 
another  farthing." 

Thornton's  face  brightened.  "  A  thousand,  thousand — "  he 
began. 

"  No,"  interrupted  I,  "  no  thanks,  only  your  promise." 

"  Upon  my  honor,"  said  Thornton,  "  I  will  never  ask  you  for 
another  farthing." 

"  There  is  honor  among  thieves,"  thought  I,  and  so  I  took 
out  the  sum  mentioned,  and  gave  it  to  him.  In  good  earnest, 
though  I  disliked  the  man,  his  threadbare  garments  and  altered 
appearance  moved  me  to  compassion.  While  he  was  pocket- 
ing the  money,  which  he  did  with  the  most  unequivocal 
delight,  a  tall  figure  passed  us  rapidly.  We  both  turned  at  the 
same  instant,  and  recognized  Glanville.  He  had  not  gone 
.seven  yards  beyond  us,  before  we  observed  his  steps,  which 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         209 

were  very  irregular,  pause  suddenly ;  a  moment  afterwards  he 
fell  against  the  iron  rails  of  an  area ;  we  hastened  towards 
him  ;  he  was  apparently  fainting.  His  countenance  was  per- 
fectly livid,  and  marked  with  the  traces  of  extreme  exhaustion. 
Isent  Thornton  to  the  nearest  public  house  for  some  water  ; 
before  he  returned,  Glanville  had  recovered. 

"  All — all — in  vain,"  he  said,  slowly  and  unconsciously, 
"  death  is  the  only  Lethe." 

He  started  when  he  saw  me.  I  made  him  lean  on  my  arm, 
and  we  walked  on.  slowly. 

"  I  have  already  heard  of  your  speech,"  said  I.  Glanville 
smiled  with  the  usual  faint  and  sicklied  expression,  which 
made  his  smile  painful  even  in  its  exceeding  sweetness. 

"  You  have  also  already  seen  its  effects ;  the  excitement  was 
too  much  for  me." 

"  It  must  have  been  a  proud  moment  when  you  sat  down," 
said  I. 

"  It  was  one  of  the  bitterest  I  ever  felt — it  was  fraught  with 
the  memory  of  the  dead.  What  are  all  honors  to  me  now  ?  O 
God  !  O  God  !  have  mercy  upon  me  !  " 

And  Glanville  stopped  suddenly,  and  put  his  hands  to  his 
temples. 

By  this  time  Thornton  had  joined  us.  When  Glanville's 
eyes  rested  upon  him,  a  deep  hectic  rose  slowly  and  gradually 
over  his  cheeks.  Thornton's  lip  curled  with  a  malicious  expres- 
sion. Glanville  marked  it,  and  his  brow  grew  on  the  moment 
as  black  as  night. 

"  Begone  !  "  he  said,  in  a  loud  voice,  and  with  a  flashing 
eye,  "  begone  instantly  ;  I  loathe  the  very  sight  of  so  base  a 
thing." 

Thornton's  quick,  restless  eye  grew  like  a  living  coal,  and 
he  bit  his  lip  so  violently  that  the  blood  gushed  out.  He 
made,  however,  no  other  answer  than — 

"  You  seem  agitated  to-night,  Sir  Reginald  ;  I  wish  your 
speedy  restoration  to  better  health.  Mr.  Pelham,  your  servant. " 

Glanville  walked  on  in  silence  till  we  came  to  his  door  ;  we 
parted  there  ;  and  for  want  of  anything  better  to  do,  I  saun- 
tered towards  the  M Hell.  There  were  only  about  ten  or 

twelve  persons  in  the  room,  and  all  were  gathered  round  the 
hazard  table.  I  looked  on  silently,  seeing  the  knaves  devour 
the  fools,  and  younger  brothers  make  up  in  wit  for  the  defi- 
ciencies of  fortune. 

The  Honorable  Mr.  Blagrave  came  up  to  me  :  "  Do  you 
never  play  ? "  said  he. 


210  PELHAM  ; 

"Sorretimes,"  was  my  brief  reply. 

"  Lend  me  a  hundred  pounds !  "  rejoined  my  kind  acquaint- 
ance. 

"  I  was  just  going  to  make  you  the  same  request,"  said  I. 

Blagrave  laughed  heartily.  "  Well,"  said  he,  "  be  my  secur- 
ity to  a  Jew,  and  I'll  be  yours.  My  fellow  lends  me  money  at: 
only  forty  per  cent.  My  governor  is  a  d — d  stingy  old  fellow, 
for  I  am  the  most  moderate  son  in  the  universe.  I  neither 
hunt  nor  race,  nor  have  I  any  one  favorite  expense,  except 
gambling,  and  he  won't  satisfy  me  in  that — now  I  call  such 
conduct  shameful !  " 

"  Unheard-of  barbarity,"  said  I ;  "and  you  do  well  to  ruin 
your  property  by  Jews,  before  you  have  it ;  you  could  not 
avenge  yourself  better  on  '  the  governor.'  " 

"No,  hang  it,"  said  Blagrave,  "leave  me  alone  for  that  ! 
Well,  I  have  got  five  pounds  left,  I  shall  go  and  slap  it  down." 

No  sooner  had  he  left  me  than  I  was  accosted  by  Mr. , 

a  handsome  adventurer,  who  lived  the  devil  knew  how,  for  the 
devil  seemed  to  take  excellent  care  of  him. 

"  Poor  Blagrave  !  "  said  he,  eyeing  the  countenance  of  that 
ingenious  youth.  "  He  is  a  strange  fellow ;  he  asked  me  the 
other  day  if  I  ever  read  the  History  of  England,  and  told  me 
there  was  a  great  deal  in  it  about  his  ancestor,  a  Roman 
General,  in  the  time  of  William  the  Conqueror,  called  Carac- 
tacus.  He  told  me  at  the  last  Newmarket  that  he  had  made 
up  a  capital  book,  and  it  turned  out  that  he  had  hedged  with 
such  dexterity  that  he  must  lose  one  thousand  pounds,  and  he 

might  lose  two.  Well,  well,"  continued ,  with  a  sanctified 

expression  ;  "  I  would  sooner  see  those  real  fools  here,  than 
the  confounded  scoundrels,  who  pillage  one  under  a  false  ap- 
pearance. Never,  Mr.  Pelham,  trust  to  a  man  at  a  gaming-house  ; 
the  honestest  look  hides  the  worst  sharper!  Shall  you  try  your 
luck  to-night  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  I,  "  I  shall  only  look  on." 

sauntered  to  the  table,  and  sat  down  next  to  a  rich 

young  man,  of  the  best  temper  and  the  worst  luck  in  the  world. 

After  a  few  throws, said  to  him  :  "  Lord ,  do  put  your 

money  aside — you  have  so  much  on  the  table,  that  it  interferes 
with  mine — and  that  is  really  so  unpleasant.  Suppose  you  put 
some  of  it  in  your  pocket." 

Lord took  a  handful  of  notes,  and  stuffed  them  care- 
lessly in  his  coat-pocket.  Five  minutes  afterwards  I  saw 

insert  his  hand,  empty,  in  his  neighbor's  pocket,  and  bring  it 
out  full — and  half  an  hour  afterwards  he  handed  over  a  fifty 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          2lt 

pound  note  to  the  marker,  saying,  "  There,  sir,  is  my  debt  to 

you.  God  bless  me,  Lord ,  how  you  have  won  ;  I  wish 

you  would  not  leave  all  your  money  about — do  put  it  in  your 
pocket  with  the  rest." 

Lord (who  had  perceived  the  trick,  though  he  was  too 

indolent  to  resist  it)  laughed.  "No,  no, ,"  said  he,  "you 

must  let  me  keep  some!" 

colored,  and  soon  after  rose.  "  D — n  my  luck  !  "  said 

he,  as  he  passed  me.  "I  wonder  I  continue  to  play — but  there 
are  such  sharpers  in  the  room.  Avoid  a  gaming-house,  Mr. 
Pelham,  if  you  wish  to  live." 

"  And  let  live,"  thought  I. 

I  was  just  going  away  when  I  heard  a  loud  laugh  on  the 
stairs,  and  immediately  afterwards  Thornton  entered,  joking 
•with  one  of  the  markers.  He  did  not  see  me  ;  but  approach- 
ing the  table,  drew  out  the  identical  twenty  pound  note  I  had 
given  him,  and  asked  for  change  with  the  air  of  a  millionaire. 
I  did  not  wait  to  witness  his  fortune,  good  or  ill  ;  I  cared  too 
little  about  it.  I  descended  the  stairs,  and  the  servant,  on 
opening  the  door  forme,  admitted  Sir  John  Tyrrell.  "  What," 
I  thought,  "is  the  habit  still  so  strong?"  We  stopped  each 
other,  and  after  a  few  words  of  greeting,  I  went,  once  more,  up- 
stairs with  him. 

Thornton  was  playing  as  eagerly  with  his  small  quota  as 

Lord  C with  his  ten  thousands.  He  nodded  with  an 

affected  air  of  familiarity  to  Tyrrell,  who  returned  his  saluta- 
tion with  the  most  supercilious  hauteur  ;  and  very  soon  after- 
wards the  Baronet  was  utterly  engrossed  by  the  chances  of  the 
game.  I  had,  however,  satisfied  my  curiosity,  in  ascertaining 
that  there  was  no  longer  any  intimacy  between  him  and  Thorn- 
ton, and  accordingly  once  more  I  took  my  departure. 


CHAPTER  LVI. 

"  The  times  have  been 

That  when  the  brains  were  out,  the  man  would  die, 
And  there  an  end — but  now  they  rise  again." — Macbeth. 

IT  was  a  strange  thing  to  see  a  man  like  Glanville,  with 
costly  tastes,  luxurious  habits,  great  talents  peculiarly  calcu- 
lated for  display,  courted  by  the  highest  members  of  the  State, 
admired  for  his  beauty  and  genius  by  half  the  women  in  Lon- 
don, yet  living  in  the  most  ascetic  seclusion  from  his  kind,  and 
indulging  in  the  darkest  and  most  morbid  despondency.  No 


2I2  PELHAM  ; 

female  was  ever  seen  to  win  even  his  momentary  glance  of 
admiration.  All  the  senses  appeared  to  have  lost,  for  him, 
their  customary  allurements.  He  lived  among  his  books,  and 
seemed  to  make  his  favorite  companions  amidst  the  past.  At 
nearly  all  hours  of  the  night  he  was  awake  and  occupied,  and 
at  daybreak  his  horse  was  always  brought  to  his  door.  He 
rode  alone  for  several  hours,  and  then,  on  his  return,  he  was 
employed,  till  the  hour  he  went  to  the  House,  in  the  affairs  and 
politics  of  the  day.  Ever  since  his  dttut,  he  had  entered  with 
much  constancy  into  the  more  leading  debates,  and  his  speeches 
were  invariably  of  the  same  commanding  order  which  had 
characterized  his  first. 

It  was  singular  that,  in  his  parliamentary  display,  as  in  his 
ordinary  conversation,  there  were  none  of  the  wild  and  specu- 
lative opinions,  or  the  burning  enthusiasm  of  romance,  in  which 
the  natural  inclination  of  his  mind  seemed  so  essentially  to 
delight.  His  arguments  were  always  remarkable  for  the  sound- 
ness of  the  principles  on  which  they  were  based,  and  the  logical 
clearness  with  which  they  were  expressed.  The  feverish  fervor 
of  his  temperament  was,  it  is  true,  occasionally  shown  in  a 
remarkable  energy  of  delivery,  or  a  sudden  and  unexpected 
burst  of  the  more  impetuous  powers  of  oratory  ;  but  these  were 
so  evidently  natural  and  spontaneous,  and  so  happily  adapted 
to  be  impressive  of  the  subject,  rather  than  irrelevant  from  its 
bearings,  that  they  never  displeased  even  the  oldest  and  coldest 
cynics  and  calculators  of  the  House. 

It  is  no  uncommon  contradiction  in  human  nature  (and  in 
Glanville  it  seemed  peculiarly  prominent)  to  find  men  of  imagi- 
nation and  genius  gifted  with  the  strongest  common  sense,  for 
the  admonition  or  benefit  of  others,  even  while  constantly  neg- 
lecting to  exert  it  for  themselves.  He  was  soon  marked  out  as 
the  most  promising  and  important  of  all  the  junior  members 
of  the  House ;  and  the  coldness  with  which  he  kept  aloof  from 
social  intercourse  with  the  party  he  adopted  only  served  to 
increase  their  respect,  though  it  prevented  their  affection. 

Lady  Roseville's  attachment  to  him  was  scarcely  a  secret ; 
the  celebrity  of  her  name  in  the  world  of  ton  made  her  least 
look  or  action  the  constant  subject  of  present  remark  and  after 
conversation  ;  and  there  were  too  many  moments,  even  in  the 
watchful  publicity  of  society,  when  that  charming  but  impru- 
dent person  forgot  everything  but  the  romance  of  her  attach- 
ment. Glanville  seemed  not  only  perfectly  untouched  by  it, 
but  even  wholly  unconscious  of  its  existence,  and  preserved 
invariably,  whenever  he  was  forced  into  the  crowd,  the  same 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         2  13 

stern,  cold,  unsympathizing  reserve,  which  made  him  at  once 
an  object  of  universal  conversation  and  dislike. 

Three  weeks  after  Glanville's  first  speech  in  the  House  I 
called  upon  him,  with  a  proposal  from  Lord  Dawton.  After 
we  had  discussed  it,  we  spoke  on  more  familiar  topics,  and  at 
last  he  mentioned  Thornton.  It  will  be  observed  that  we  had 
never  conversed  respecting  that  person  ;  nor  had  Glanville 
once  alluded  to  our  former  meetings,  or  to  his  disguised  ap- 
pearance and  false  appellation  at  Paris.  Whatever  might  be 
the  mystery,  it  was  evidently  of  a  painful  nature,  and  it  was 
not,  therefore,  for  me  to  allude  to  it.  This  day  he  spoke  of 
Thornton  with  a  tone  of  indifference. 

"  The  man,"  he  said,  "  I  have  known  for  some  time  ;  he  was 
useful  to  me  abroad,  and,  notwithstanding  his  character,  I  re- 
warded him  well  for  his  services.  He  has  since  applied  to  me 
several  times  for  money,  which  is  spent  at  the  gambling-house 
as  soon  as  it  is  obtained.  I  believe  him  to  be  leagued  with  a 
gang  of  sharpers  of  the  lowest  description  ;  and  I  am  really 
unwilling  any  farther  to  supply  the  vicious  necessities  of  him- 
self and  his  comrades.  He  is  a  mean,  mercenary  rascal,  who 
would  scruple  at  no  enormity,  provided  he  was  paid  for  it  !  " 

Glanville  paused  for  a  few^  moments,  and  then  added,  while 
his  cheek  blushed,  and  his  voice  seemed  somewhat  hesitating 
and  embarrassed  : 

"  You  remember  Mr.  Tyrrell,  at  Paris  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  I ;  "he  is  at  present  in  London,  and — "  Glan- 
ville started  as  if  he  had  been  shot. 

"  No,  no,"  he  exclaimed  wildly;  "he  died  at  Paris,  from 
want, — from  starvation."  . 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  said  I ;  "  he  is  now  Sir  John  Tyrrell, 
and  possessed  of  considerable  property.  I  saw  him  myself 
three  weeks  ago." 

Glanville,  laying  his  hand  upon  my  arm,  looked  in  my  face 
with  a  long,  stern,  prying  gaze,  and  his  cheek  grew  more 
ghastly  and  livid  with  every  moment.  At  last  he  turned,  and 
muttered  something  between  his  teeth  ;  and  at  that  moment 
the  door  opened,  and  Thornton  was  announced.  Glanville 
sprang  towards  him,  and  seized  him  by  the  throat  ! 

"  Dog  !  "  he  cried,  "  you  have  deceived  me — Tyrrell  lives  ! " 

"  Hands  off  !  "  cried  the  gamester,  with  a  savage  grin  of  de- 
fiance ;  "  hands  off  !  or,  by  the  Lord  that  made  me,  you  shall 
have  gripe  for  gripe  !  " 

"  Ho,  wretch  !  "  said  Glanville,  shaking  him  violently,  while 
his  worn  and  slender,  yet  still  powerful,  frame  trembled  with 


414  fELHAM  J 

the  excess  of  his  passion  ;  "dost  thou  dare  to  threaten  me  !  " 
and  with  these  words  he  flung  Thornton  against  the  opposite 
wall  with  such  force  that  the  blood  gushed  out  of  his  mouth 
and  nostrils.  The  gambler  rose  slowly,  and  wiping  the  blood 
from  his  face,  fixed  his  malignant  and  fiery  eye  upon  his  ag- 
gressor, with  an  expression  of  collected  hate  and  vengeance 
that  made  my  very  blood  creep. 

"  It  is  not  my  day  now"  he  said,  with  a  calm,  quiet,  cold 
voice,  and  then,  suddenly  changing  his  manner,  he  approached 
me  with  a  sort  of  bow,  and  made  some  remark  on  the  weather. 

Meanwhile,  Glanvihehad  sunk  on  the  sofa  exhausted,  less  by 
his  late  effort  than  the  convulsive  passion  which  had  produced 
it.  He  rose  in  a  few  moments,  and  said  to  Thornton  :  li  Pardon 
my  violence  ;  let  this  pay  your  bruises"  ;  and  he  placed  a  long 
and  apparently  well-filled  purse  in  Thornton's  hand.  That 
veritable philosophe  took  it  with  the  same  air  as  a  dog  receives 
the  first  caress  from  the  hand  which  has  just  chastised  him  ; 
and  feeling  the  purse  between  his  short,  hard  fingers,  as  if  to  as- 
certain the  soundness  of  its  condition,  quietly  slid  it  into  his 
breeches  pocket,  which  he  then  buttoned  with  care,  and  pull- 
ing his  waistcoat  down,  as  if  for  further  protection  to  the  de- 
posit, he  turned  towards  Glanville,  and  said,  in  his  usual  quaint 
style  of  vulgarity : 

"  Least  said,  Sir  Reginald,  the  soonest  mended.  Gold  is  a 
good  plaister  for  bad  bruises.  Now,  then,  your  will :  ask  and  I 
will  answer,  unless  you  think  Mr.  Pelham — detrop" 

I  was  already  at  the  door,  with  the  intention  of  leaving  the 
room,  when  Glanville  cried,  "  Stay,  Pelham,  I  have  but  one 
question  to  ask  Mr.  Thornton.  Is  John  Tyrrell  still  living?  " 

"  He  is  !  "  answered  Thornton,  with  a  sardonic  smile. 

"  And  beyond  all  want  ? "  resumed  Glanville. 

"  He  is  !  "  was  the  tautological  reply. 

"  Mr.  Thornton,"  said  Glanville  with  a  calm  voice,  "  I  have 
now  done  with  you — you  may  leave  the  room  ! " 

Thornton  bowed  with  an  air  of  ironical  respect,  and  obeyed 
the  command. 

I  turned  to  look  at  Glanville.  His  countenance,  always 
better  adapted  to  a  stern  than  a  soft  expression,  was  perfectly 
fearful :  every  line  in  it  seemed  dug  into  a  furrow  ;  the  brows 
were  bent  over  his  large  and  flashing  eyes  with  a  painful  intens- 
ity of  anger  and  resolve,  his  teeth  were  clenched  firmly  as  if  by 
a  vise,  and  the  thin  upper  lip,  which  was  drawn  from  them  with 
a  bitter  curl  of  scorn,  was  as  white  as  death.  His  right  hand 
had  closed  upon  the  back  of  the  chair,  over  which  his  tall  nerv- 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         21$ 

ous  frame  leant,  and  was  grasping  it  with  an  iron  force,  which 
it  could  not  support :  it  snapped  beneath  his  hand  like  a  hazel 
stick.  This  accident,  slight  as  it  was,  recalled  him  to  himself. 
He  apologized  with  apparent  self-possession  for  his  disorder ; 
and,  after  a  few  words  of  fervent  and  affectionate  farewell  on 
my  part,  I  left  him  to  the  solitude  which  I  knew  he  desired. 


CHAPTER  LVII. 

"  While  I  seemed  only  intent  upan  pleasure,  I  locked  in  my  heart  the  con- 
sciousness and  vanity  of  power  ;  in  the  levity  of  the  lip  I  disguised  the 
knowledge  and  the  workings  of  the  brain  ;  and  I  looked,  as  with  a  gifted 
eye,  upon  the  mysteries  of  the  hidden  depths,  while  I  seemed  to  float  an  idler 
with  the  herd  only  upon  the  surface  of  the  stream." — FALKLAND. 

As  I  walked  home,  revolving  the  scene  I  had  witnessed,  the 
words  of  Tyrrell  came  into  my  recollection — viz.,  that  the  cause 
of  Glanville's  dislike  to  him  had  arisen  in  Tyrrell's  greater 
success  in  some  youthful  liaison.  In  this  account  I  could  not 
see  much  probability.  In  the  first  place,  the  cause  was  not 
sufficient  to  produce  such  an  effect  ;  and,  in  the  second,  there 
was  little  likelihood  that  the  young  and  rich  Glanville,  possessed 
of  the  most  various  accomplishments,  and  the  most  remarkable 
personal  beauty,  should  be  supplanted  by  a  needy  spendthrift 
(as  Tyrrell  at  that  time  was),  of  coarse  manners,  and  unpolished 
mind  ;  with  a  person  not,  indeed,  unprepossessing,  but  somewhat 
touched  by  time,  and  never  more  comparable  to  Glanville's 
than  that  of  the  Satyr  to  Hyperion. 

While  I  was  meditating  over  a  mystery  which  excited  my 
curiosity  more  powerfully  than  anything,  not  relating  to  him- 
self, ought  ever  to  occupy  the  attention  of  a  wise  man,  I  was 
accosted  by  Vincent  :  the  difference  in  our  politics  had  of  late 
much  dissevered  us,  and  when  he  took  my  arm,  and  drew  me 
up  Bond  Street,  I  was  somewhat  surprised  at  his  condescension. 

"Listen  to  me,  Pelham,"  he  said  ;  "once  more  I  offer  you  a 
settlement  in  our  colony.  There  will  be  great  changes  soon  : 
trust  me,  so  radical  a  party  as  that  you  have  adopted  can  never 
come  in  :  ours,  on  the  contrary,  is  no  less  moderate  than  liberal. 
This  is  the  last  time  of  asking ;  for  I  know  you  will  soon  have 
exposed  your  opinions  in  public  more  openly  than  you  have 
yet  done,  and  then  it  will  be  too  late.  At  present  I  hold,  with 
Hudibras,  and  the  ancients,  that  it  is 

'  More  honorable  far,  servare 
Civern  than  slay  an  adversary.' " 


2l6  PELHAM  J 

"Alas,  Vincent,"  said  I,  "  I  am  marked  out  for  slaughter,  for 
you  cannot  convince  me  by  words,  and  so,  I  suppose,  you  must 
conquer  me  by  blows.  Adieu,  this  my  way  to  Lord  Dawton's  : 
where  are  you  going?" 

"  To  mount  my  horse,  and  join  the  parca  juventus,"  said 
Vincent,  with  a  laugh  at  his  own  witticism,  as  we  shook  hands 
and  parted. 

I  grieve  much,  my  beloved  reader,  that  I  cannot  unfold  to 
thee  all  the  particulars  of  my  political  intrigue.  I  am,  by  the 
very  share  which  fell  to  my  lot,  bound  over  to  the  strictest 
secrecy  as  to  its  nature,  and  the  characters  of  the  chief  agents 
in  its  execution.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  the  greater  part  of  my 
time  was,  though  furtively,  employed  in  a  sort  of  home  diplom- 
acy, gratifying  alike  to  the  activity  of  my  tastes,  and  the  vanity 
of  my  mind.  I  had  filled  Dawton,  and  his  coadjutors,  with  an 
exaggerated  opinion  of  my  abilities  ;  but  I  knew  well  how  to 
sustain  it.  I  rose  by  candle-light,  and  consumed,  in  the  intensest 
application,  the  hours  which  every  other  individual  of  our  party 
wasted  in  enervating  slumbers,  from  the  hesternal  dissipation 
or  debauch.  Was  there  a  question  in  political  economy  debated, 
mine  was  the  readiest  and  the  clearest  reply.  Did  a  period  in 
our  constitution  become  investigated,  it  was  I  to  whom  the  duty 
of  expositor  was  referred.  From  Madame  d'Anville,  with 
whom  (though  lost  as  a  lover)  I  constantly  corresponded  as  a 
friend,  I  obtained  the  earliest  and  most  accurate  detail  of  the 
prospects  and  manoeuvres  of  the  court  in  which  her  life  was  spent, 
and  in  whose  more  secret  offices  her  husband  was  employed.  I 
spared  no  means  of  extending  my  knowledge  of  even  the  minutest 
point  which  could  add  to  the  reputation  I  enjoyed.  I  made  my- 
self acquainted  with  the  individual  interests  and  exact  circum- 
stances of  all  whom  it  was  our  object  to  intimidate  or  to  gain. 
It  was  I  who  brought  to  the  House  the  younger  and  idler  mem- 
bers, whom  no  more  nominally  powerful  agent  could  allure  from 
the  ball-room  or  the  gaming-house. 

In  short,  while,  by  the  dignity  of  my  birth,  and  the  inde- 
pendent hauteur  of  my  bearing,  I  preserved  the  rank  of  an 
equal  amongst  the  highest  of  the  set,  I  did  not  scruple  to  take 
upon  myself  the  labor  and  activity  of  the  most  subordinate. 
Dawton  declared  me  his  right  hand,  and,  though  I  knew 
myself  rather  his  head  than  his  hand,  I  pretended  to  feel 
proud  of  the  appellation. 

Meanwhile,  it  was  my  pleasure  t6  wear  in  society  the  eccen- 
tric costume  of  character  I  had  first  adopted,  and  to  cultivate 
the  arts  which  won  from  women  the  smile  that  cheered  and 


OR,    ADVENTURES   OF    A    GENTLEMAN.  217 

encouraged  me  in  my  graver  contest  with  men.  It  was  only 
to  Ellen  Glanville  that  I  laid  aside  an  affectation  which,  I 
knew,  was  little  likely  to  attract  a  taste  so  refined  and  unadul- 
terated as  hers.  I  discovered  in  her  a  mind  which,  while  it 
charmed  me  by  its  tenderness  and  freshness,  elevated  me  by 
its  loftiness  of  thought.  She  was,  at  heart,  perhaps,  as  ambi- 
tious as  myself;  but  while  my  aspirations  were  concealed  by 
affectation,  hers  were  softened  by  her  timidity,  and  purified  by 
her  religion.  There  were  moments  when  I  opened  myself  to 
her,  and  caught  a  new  spirit  from  her  look  of  sympathy  and 
enthusiasm. 

"Yes,"  thought  I,  "I  do  long  for  honors,  but  it  is  that  I 
may  ask  her  to  share  and  ennoble  them."  In  fine,  I  loved  as 
other  men  loved — and  I  fancied  a  perfection  in  her,  and  vowed 
an  emulation  in  myself,  which  it  was  reserved  for  Time  to 
ratify  or  deride. 

Where  did  I  leave  myself?  as  the  Irishman  said — on  my 
road  to  Lord  Dawton's.  I  was  lucky  enough  to  find  that  per- 
sonage at  home  ;  he  was  writing  at  a  table  covered  with  pam- 
phlets and  books  of  reference. 

"  Hush  !  Pelham,"  said  his  lordship,  who  is  a  quiet,  grave, 
meditative  little  man,  always  ruminating  on  a  very  small  cud  ; 
"hush!  or  do  oblige  me  by  looking  over  this  history,  to  find 
out  the  date  of  the  Council  of  Pisa." 

"That  will  do,  my  young  friend,"  said  his  lordship,  after  I 
had  furnished  him  with  the  information  he  required.  "  I  wish 
to  Heaven  I  could  finish  this  pamphlet  by  to-morrow  :  it  is 

intended  as  an  answer  to .  But  I  am  so  perplexed  with 

business,  that — " 

"Perhaps,"  said  I,  "if  you  will  pardon  my  interrupting  you, 
I  can  throw  your  observations  together — make  your  Sibylline 
leaves  into  a  book.  Your  lordship  will  find  the  matter,  and  I 
will  not  spare  the  trouble." 

Lord  Dawton  was  profuse  in  his  thanks  ;  he  explained  the 
subject,  and  left  the  arrangement  wholly  to  me.  He  could  not 
presume  to  dictate.  I  promised  him,  if  he  lent  me  the  neces- 
sary books,  to  finish  the  pamphlet  against  the  following  evening. 

"  And  now,"  said  Lord  Dawton,  "  that  we  have  settled  this 

affair — what  news  from  France  ?  " — 

******* 

"  I  wish,"   sighed  Lord  Dawton,  as  we  were  calculating  our 
forces,  "that  we  could  gain  over  Lord  Guloseton." 
"  What,  the  facetious  epicure  ?  "  said  I. 
"  The  same,"  answered    Dawton  ;  "  we  want  him  as  a  din- 


2l8  PELHAM  J 

ner-giver ;    and,  besides,   he   has   four   votes   in   the   Lower 
House." 

"  Well,"  said  I,  "he  is  indolent  and  independent — it  is  not 
impossible." 

"  Do  you  know  him  ?  "  answered  Dawton. 

"  No,"  said  I. 

Dawton  sighed.     "And  young  A ?"  said  the  statesman, 

after  a  pause. 

"  Has  an  expensive  mistress  and  races.  Your  lordship 
might  be  sure  of  him,  were  you  in  power,  and  sure  not  to  have 
him  while  you  are  out  of  it." 

"  And  B.  ?"  rejoined  Dawton. 

******* 


CHAPTER    LVIII. 

"  Mangez-vous  bien,  Monsieur? 
Oui,  et  bois  encore  mieux. " 

— Mons,  de  Porceaugnac. 

MY  pamphlet  took  prodigiously.  The  authorship  was  at- 
tributed to  one  of  the  ablest  members  of  the  Opposition  ;  and 
though  there  were  many  errors  in  style,  and  (I  now  think — 
then  I  did  not,  or  I  should  not  have  written  them),  many 
sophisms  in  the  reasoning,  yet  it  carried  the  end  proposed  by 
all  ambition  of  whatever  species — and  imposed  upon  the  taste 
of  the  public. 

Some  time  afterwards  I  was  going  down  the  stairs  at  Al- 
mack's  when  I  heard  an  altercation,  high  and  grave,  at  the 
door  of  reception.  To  my  surprise  I  found  Lord  Guloseton 
and  a  very  young  man  in  great  wrath  ;  the  latter  had  never 
been  to  Almack's  before,  and  had  forgotten  his  ticket.  Gulose- 
ton, who  belonged  to  a  very  different  set  from  that  of  the  Al- 
mackians,  insisted  that  his  word  was  enough  to  bear  his  juve- 
nile companion  through.  The  ticket-inspector  was  irate  and 
obdurate,  and,  having  seldom  or  never  seen  Lord  Guloseton 
himself,  paid  very  little  respect  to  his  authority. 

As  I  was  wrapping  myself  in  my  cloak,  Guloseton  turned  to 
me,  for  passion  makes  men  open  their  hearts  ;  too  eager  for 
an  opportunity  of  acquiring  the  epicure's  acquaintance,  I 
offered  to  get  his  friend  admittance  in  an  instant ;  the  offer 
was  delightedly  accepted,  and  I  soon  procured  a  small  piece 

of  pencilled  paper  from  Lady which  effectually  silenced 

the  Charon,  and  opened  the  Stygian  via  to  the  Elysium  beyond, 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         219 

Guloseton  overwhelmed  me  with  his  thanks.  I  remounted 
the  stairs  with  him,  took  every  opportunity  of  ingratiating 
myself,  received  an  invitation  to  dinner  on  the  following  day, 
and  left  Willis's  transported  at  the  goodness  of  my  fortune. 

At  the  hour  of  eight  on  the  ensuing  evening,  I  had  just  made 
my  entrance  in  Lord  Guloseton's  drawing-room.  It  was  a 
small  apartment,  furnished  with  great  luxury  and  some  taste. 
A  Venus  of  Titian's  was  placed  over  the  chimney-piece,  in  all 
the  gorgeous  voluptuousness  of  her  unveiled  beauty  :  the  pout- 
ing lip,  not  silent  though  shut ;  the  eloquent  lid  drooping  over 
the  eye,  whose  glances  you  could  so  easily  imagine  ;  the  arms  ; 
the  limbs  ;  the  attitude,  so  composed,  yet  so  full  of  life — all 
seemed  to  indicate  that  sleep  was  not  forgetfulness,  and  that 
the  dreams  of  the  goddess  were  not  wholly  inharmonious  with 
the  waking  realities  in  which  it  was  her  gentle  prerogative  to 
indulge.  On  either  side  was  a  picture  of  the  delicate  and 
golden  hues  of  Claude ;  these  were  the  only  landscapes  in  the 
room  ;  the  remaining  pictures  were  more  suitable  to  the  Venus 
of  the  luxurious  Italian.  Here  was  one  of  the  beauties  of  Sir 
Peter  Lely  ;  there  was  an  admirable  copy  of  the  Hero  and  Le- 
ander.  On  the  table  lay  the  Basia  of  Johannes  Secundus,  and 
a  few  French  works  on  Gastronomy. 

As  for  the  genius  loci — you  must  imagine  a  middle-sized, 
middle-aged  man,  with  an  air  rather  of  delicate  than  florid 
health.  But  little  of  the  effects  of  his  good  cheer  was  apparent 
in  the  external  man.  His  cheeks  were  neither  swollen  nor  in- 
flated ;  his  person,  though  not  thin,  was  of  no  unwieldy  obes- 
ity ;  the  tip  of  his  nasal  organ  was,  it  is  true,  of  a  more  ruby 
tinge  than  the  rest,  and  one  carbuncle,  of  tender  age,  and  gen- 
tle dyes,  diffused  its  mellow  and  moonlight  influence  over  the 
physiognomical  scenery  ;  his  forehead  was  high  and  bald,  and 
the  few  locks  which  still  rose  above  it  were  carefully  and 
gracefully  curled  d  F  antique.  Beneath  a  pair  of  gray  shaggy 
brows  (which  their  noble  owner  had  a  strange  habit  of  raising 
and  depressing,  according  to  the  nature  of  his  remarks),  rolled 
two  very  small,  piercing,  arch,  restless  orbs,  of  a  tender  green; 
und  the  mouth,  which  was  wide  and  thick-lipped,  was  express- 
ive of  great  sensuality,  and  curved  upwards  in  a  perpetual  smile. 

Such  was  Lord  Guloseton.  To  my  surprise  no  other  guest 
but  myself  appeared. 

"A  new  friend,"  said  he,  as  we  descended  into  the  dining- 
room,  "  is  like  a  new  dish — one  must  have  him  all  to  oneself, 
thoroughly  to  enjoy  and  rightly  to  understand  hjra." 

"  A  noble  precept,"  said  J  with  enthusiasm.     4<0f  all  vices, 


220  PELHAM  J 

indiscriminate  hospitality  is  the  most  pernicious.  It  allows 
neither  conversation  nor  dinner,  and,  realizing  the  mythologi- 
cal fable  of  Tantalus,  gives  us  starvation  in  the  midst  of  plenty." 

"  You  are  right,"  said  Guloseton  solemnly  ;  "  I  never  ask 
above  six  persons  to  dinner,  and  I  never  dine  out ;  for  a  bad 
dinner,  Mr.  Pelham,  a  bad  dinner  is  a  most  serious — I  may  add, 
the  most  serious — calamity." 

"  Yes,"  I  replied,  "  for  it  carries  with  it  no  consolation  :  a 
buried  friend  may  be  replaced — a  lost  mistress  renewed — a 
slandered  character  be  recovered — even  a  broken  constitution 
restored  ;  but  a  dinner,  once  lost,  is  irremediable  ;  that  day  is 
forever  departed  ;  an  appetite  once  thrown  away  can  never, 
till  the  cruel  prolixity  of  the  gastric  agents  is  over,  be  regained. 
'  Ily  a  tant  de  mattresses  '  (says  the  admirable  Corneille), '/'/  n'y 
'a  quun  diner.'  " 

"  You  speak  like  an  oracle — like  the  Cook's  Oracle,  Mr.  Pel- 
ham  :  may  i  send  you  some  soup,  it  is  a  la  Carmelite?  But 
what  are  you  about  to  do  with  that  case  ?  " 

"It  contains,"  said  I,  "  my  spoon,  my  knife,  and  my  fork. 
Nature  afflicted  me  with  a  propensity,  which,  through  these 
machines,  I  have  endeavored  to  remedy  by  art.  I  eat  with 
too  great  a  rapidity.  It  is  a  most  unhappy  failing,  for  one  often 
hurries  over  in  one  minute  what  ought  to  have  afforded  the 
fullest  delight  for  the  period  of  five.  It  is,  indeed,  a  vice  which 
deadens  enjoyment,  as  well  as  abbreviates  it  ;  it  is  a  shameful 
waste  of  the  gifts,  and  a  melancholy  perversion  of  the  bounty, 
of  Providence.  My  conscience  tormented  me  ;  but  the  habit, 
fatally  indulged  in  early  childhood,  was  not  easy  to  overcome. 
At  last  I  resolved  to  construct  a  spoon  of  peculiarly  shallow 
dimensions,  a  fork  so  small  that  it  could  only  raise  a  certain 
portion  to  my  mouth,  and  a  knife  rendered  blunt  and  jagged, 
so  that  it  required  a  proper  and  just  time  to  carve  the  goods 
'  the  gods  provide  me.'  My  lord,  'the  lovely  Thais  sits  beside 
me  '  in  the  form  of  a  bottle  of  Madeira.  Suffer  me  to  take 
wine  with  you  ?  " 

"  With  pleasure,  my  good  friend  ;  let  us  drink  to  the  mem- 
ory of  the  Carmelites,  to  whom  we  are  indebted  for  this  inim- 
itable soup." 

Yes  !  "  I  cried,  "  Let  us  for  once  shake  off  the  prejudices 
of  sectarian  faith,  and  do  justice  to  one  order  of  those  incom- 
parable men,  who,  retiring  from  the  cares  of  an  idle  and  sinful 
world,  gave  themselves  with  undivided  zeal  and  attention  to  the 
theory  and  practice  of  the  profound  science  of  gastronomy. 
It  is  reserved  for  us  to  pay  a  grateful  tribute  of  memory  to  those 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         221 

exalted  recluses,  who,  through  a  long  period  of  barbarism  and 
darkness,  preserved,  in  the  solitude  of  their  cloisters,  whatever 
of  Roman  luxuries  and  classic  dainties  have  come  down  to  this 
later  age.  We  will  drink  to  the  Carmelites  as  a  sect,  but  we 
will  drink  also  to  the  monks  as  a  body.  Had  we  lived  in  those 
days,  we  had  been  monks  ourselves  !  " 

"  It  is  singular,"  answered  Lord  Guloseton  "  (by  the  by, 
what  think  you  of  this  turbot  ?)  to  trace  the  history  of  the 
kitchen  ;  it  affords  the  greatest  scope  to  the  philosopher  and 
the  moralist.  The  ancients  seemed  to  have  been  more  mental, 
more  imaginative,  than  we  are,  in  their  dishes  ;  they  fed  their 
bodies  as  well  as  their  minds  upon  delusion  ;  for  instance,  they 
esteemed  beyond  all  price  the  tongues  of  nightingales,  because 
they  tasted  the  very  music  of  the  birds  in  the  organs  of  their 
utterance.  That  is  what  I  call  the  poetry  of  gastronomy  ! " 

"  Yes,"  said  I  with  a  sigh,  "  they  certainly  had,  in  some  re- 
spects, the  advantage  over  us.  Who  can  pore  over  the  suppers 
of  Apicius  without  the  fondest  regret  ?  The  venerable  Ude  * 
implies,  that  the  study  has  not  progressed.  "Cookery  (he 
says,  in  the  first  part  of  his  work)  possesses  but  few  inno- 
vators." 

''  It  is  with  the  greatest  diffidence,"  said  Guloseton  (his 
mouth  full  of  truth  and  turbot),  "  that  we  may  dare  to  differ 
from  so  great  an  authority.  Indeed,  so  high  is  my  veneration 
for  that  wise  man,  that  if  all  the  evidence  of  my  sense  and  rea- 
son were  on  one  side,  and  the  dictum  of  the  great  Ude  upon 
the  other,  I  should  be  inclined — I  think,  I  should  be  deter- 
mined— to  relinquish  the  former,  and  adopt  the  latter."  \ 

"  Bravo,  Lord  Guloseton,"  cried  I  warmly.  "  '  Qu'un  Cui- 
sinier  est  un  mortel  divin  ! '  Why  should  we  not  be  proud  of  our 
knowledge  in  cookery  ?  It  is  the  soul  of  festivity  at  all  times, 
and  to  all  ages.  How  many  marriages  have  been  the  conse- 
quence of  meeting  at  dinner.  How  much  good  fortune  has 
been  the  result  of  a  good  supper?  At  what  moment  of  our 
existence  are  we  happier  than  at  table  ?  There  hatred  and 
animosity  are  lulled  to  sleep,  and  pleasure  alone  reigns.  Here 
the  cook,  by  his  skill  and  attention,  anticipates  our  wishes 
in  the  happiest  selection  of  the  best  dishes  and  decorations. 
Here  our  wants  are  satisfied,  our  minds  and  bodies  invigor- 
ated, and  ourselves  qualified  for  the  high  delights  of  love, 
music,  poetry,  dancing,  and  other  pleasures  ;  and  is  he,  whose 

*  Qu.     The  venerable  Bede  ?— Printer's  Devil. 

*  See  the  speech  of  Mr,  Brougham  in  honor  of  Mr.  Fox, 


222  •  PELHAM  J 

talents  have  produced  these  happy  effects,  to  rank  no  higher  in 
the  scale  of  man  than  a  common  servant  ?* 

"'Yes/  cries  the  venerable  professor  himself,  in  a  virtuous 
and  prophetic  paroxysm  of  indignant  merit;  'Yes,  my  disciples, 
if  you  adopt,  and  attend  to  the  rules  I  have  laid  down,  the  self- 
love  of  mankind  will  consent  at  last  that  cookery  shall  rank  in 
the  class  of  the  sciences,  and  its  professors  deserve  the  name 
of  artists  !  '  "  f 

"  My  dear,  dear  sir,"  exclaimed  Guloseton,  with  a  kindred 
glow,  "I  discover  in  you  a  spirit  similar  to  my  own.  Let  us 
drink  long  life  to  the  venerable  Ude  !  " 

"  I  pledge  you,  with  all  my  soul,"  said  I,  filling  my  glass  to 
the  brim. 

"What  a  pity,"  rejoined  Guloseton,  "that  Ude,  \vhosefraf- 
//Va/science  was  so  perfect,  should  ever  have  written,  or  suffered 
others  to  write,  the  work  published  under  his  name  ;  true  it  is 
that  the  opening  part,  which  you  have  so  feelingly  recited,  is 
composed  with  a  grace,  a  charm  beyond  the  reach  of  art;  but  the 
instructions  are  vapid  and  frequently  so  erroneous,  as  to  make  us 
suspect  their  authenticity;  but,  after  all,  cooking  is  not  capable  of 
becoming  a  written  science — it  is  the  philosophy  of  practice  !  " 

"  Ah !  by  Lucullus,"  exclaimed  I,  interrupting  my  host, 
"  what  a  visionary  btchamelle  !  Oh,  the  inimitable  sauce  ;  these 
chickens  are  indeed  worthy  of  the  honor  of  being  dressed. 
Never,  my  lord,  as  long  as  you  live,  eat  a  chicken  in  the  coun- 
try ;  excuse  a  pun,  you  will  have/iw/  fare. 

'  J'ai  toujours  redoute  la  volaille  perfide, 
Qui  brave  les  efforts  d'une  dent  intrepide. 
Souvent,  par  un  ami  dans  ses  champs  entraine, 
J'ai  reconnu  le  soir  le  coq  inforlune 
Qui  m'avait  le  matin  a  1'aurore  naissante 
Reveille  brusquement  de  sa  voix  glapissante  ; 
Je  1'avais  admire  dans  le  sein  de  la  cour ; 
Avec  des  yeux  jaloux,  j'avais  vu  son  amour. 
Helas  !  le  malheureux,  abjurant  sa  tendresse, 
Exer^ait  au  souper  sa  fureur  vengeresse.'  \ 

Pardon  the  prolixity  of  my  quotation  for  the  sake  of  its  value." 

*Ude,  verbatim.  t  Ibid. 

t  Ever  I  dread  (when  dup'd  a  day  to  spend 
At  his  snug  villa,  by  some  fatal  friend) 
Grim  Chanticleer,  whose  breast,  devoid  of  ruth. 
Braves  the  stout  effort  of  the  desperate  tooth. 
Oft  have  I  recognized  at  eve,  the  bird 
Whose  morning  notes  my  ear  prophetic  heard, 
Whose  tender  courtship  won  my  pain'd  regard, 
Amidst  the  plum'd  seraglio  of  the  yard. 
Tender  no  more — behold  him  in  your  plate— 
And  know,  while  eating,  you  avenge  his  fat*. 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          223 

"  I  do,  I  do,"  answered  Guloseton,  laughing  at  the  humor  of 
the  lines :  till,  suddenly  checking  himself,  he  said,  "  We  must 
be  grave,  Mr.  Pelham,  it  will  never  do  to  laugh.  What  would 
become  of  our  digestions?" 

"True,"  said  I,  relapsing  into  seriousness;  "and  if  you  will 
allow  me  one  more  quotation,  you  will  see  what  my  author  adds 
with  regard  to  any  abrupt  interruption. 

'Defendez  que  personne,  au  milieu  d'un  banquet 
Ne  vous  vienne  donner  un  avis  indiscret ; 
Ecartez  ce  facheux  qui  vers  vous  s'achemine  ; 
Rien  ne  doit  deranger  1'honnete  homme  qui  dine.'  "  * 

"Admirable  advice,"  said  Guloseton,  toying  with  a  filet  mig- 
non  de  poulet.  "  Do  you  remember  an  example  in  the  Bailly  of 
Suffren,  who,  being  in  India,  was  waited  upon  by  a  deputation 
of  natives  while  he  was  at  dinner?  '  Tell  them,"  said  he,  '  that 
the  Christian  religion  peremptorily  forbids  every  Christian,  while 
at  table,  to  occupy  himself  with  any  earthly  subject,  except  the 
function  of  eating.'  The'deputation  retired  in  the  profoundest 
respect  at  the  exceeding  devotion  of  the  French  general." 

"Well,"  said  I,  after  we  had  chuckled  gravely  and  quietly, 
with  the  care  of  our  digestion  before  us,  for  a  few  minutes ; 
"Well,  however  good  the  invention  was,  the  idea  is  not  entirely 
new,  for  the  Greeks  esteemed  eating  and  drinking  plentifully  a 
sort  of  offering  to  the  gods ;  and  Aristotle  explains  the  very 
word,  Qoivat,  or  feasts,  by  an  etymological  exposition,  '  that  it  was 
thought  a  duty  to  the  gods  to  be  drunk';  no  bad  idea  of  our 
classical  patterns  of  antiquity.  Polypheme,  too,  in  the  Cyclops 
of  Euripides,  no  doubt  a  very  sound  theologian,  says,  his 
stomach  is  his  only  deity  ;  and  Xenophon  tells  us,  that  as  the 
Athenians  exceeded  all  other  people  in  the  number  of  their 
gods,  so  they  exceeded  them  also  in  the  number  of  their  feasts. 
May  I  send  your  lordship  a  quail  ?" 

"Pelham,  my  boy,"  said  Guloseton,  whose  eyes  began  to 
roll  and  twinkle  with_a  brilliancy  suited  to  the  various  liquids 
which  ministered  to  their  rejoicing  orbs  ;  "  I  love  you  for  your 
classics.  Polypheme  was  a  wise  fellow,  a  very  wise  fellow,  and 
it  was  a  terrible  shame  in  Ulysses  to  put  out  his  eye !  No 
wonder  that  the  ingenious  savage  made  a  deity  of  his  stomach  ; 
to  what  known  visible  source,  on  this  earth,  was  he  indebted 
for  a  keener  enjoyment — a  more  rapturous  and  a  more  con- 
stant delight  ?  No  wonder  he  honored  it  with  his  gratitude, 

*  At  meals  no  access  to  the  indiscreet ; 
All  are  intruders  on  the  wise  who  eat. 
In  that  blest  hour,  your  bore's  the  veriest  sinner! 
Nought  must  disturb  a  man  of  worth — at  dinner. 


224  PELHAM  ; 

and  supplied  it  with  his  peace-offerings ;  let  us  imitate  so 
great  an  example  ;  let  us  make  our  digestive  receptacles  a 
temple,  to  which  we  will  consecrate  the  choicest  goods  we 
possess ;  let  us  conceive  no  pecuniary  sacrifice  too  great, 
which  procures  for  our  altar  an  acceptable  gift ;  let  us  deem  it 
an  impiety  to  hesitate,  if  a  sauce  seems  extravagant,  or  an 
ortolan  too  dear ;  and  let  our  last  act  in  this  sublunary 
existence  be  a  solemn  festival  in  honor  of  our  unceasing 
benefactor  ! " 

"Amen  to  your  creed!"  said  I:  "edibilatory  Epicurism 
holds  the  key  to  all  morality  :  for  do  we  not  see  now  how  sin- 
ful it  is  to  yield  to  an  obscene  and  exaggerated  intemperance? 
Would  it  not  be  to  the  last  degree  ungrateful  to  the  great 
source  of  our  enjoyment  to  overload  it  with  a  weight  which 
would  oppress  it  with  languor,  or  harass  it  with  pain  ;  and 
finally  to  drench  away  the  effects  of  our  impiety  with  some 
nauseous  potation  which  revolts  it,  tortures  it,  convulses,  irri- 
tates, enfeebles  it,  through  every  particle  of  its  system  ?  How 
wrong  in  us  to  give  way  to  anger,  jealousy,  revenge,  or  any 
evil  passion  ;  for  does  not  all  that  affects  the  mind  operate  also 
upon  the  stomach  ;  and  how  can  we  be  so  vicious,  so  obdurate, 
as  to  forget,  for  a  momentary  indulgence,  our  debt  to  what  you 
have  so  justly  designated  our  perpetual  benefactor?" 

"Right,"  said  Lord  Guloseton,  "a  bumper  to  the  Morality 
of  the  Stomach." 

The  dessert  was  now  on  the  table.  "I  have  dined  well," 
said  Guloseton,  stretching  his  legs  with  an  air  of  supreme 
satisfaction  ;  "  but " — and  here  my  philosopher  sighed  deeply — 
"we  cannot  dine  again  till  to-morrow !  Happy,  happy,  happy, 
common  people,  who  can  eat  supper  !  Would  to  Heaven,  that 
I  might  have  one  boon — perpetual  appetite — a  digestive  Houri, 
which  renewed  its  virginity  every  time  it  was  touched.  Alas  ! 
for  the  instability  of  human  enjoyment !  But  now  that  we 
have  no  immediate  hope  to  anticipate,  let  us  cultivate  the 
pleasures  of  memory.  What  thought  you  of  the  vcau  a  la 
Dauphine  ?  " 

"  Pardon  me  if  I  hesitate  at  giving  my  opinion,  till  I  have 
corrected  my  judgment  by  yours." 

"  Why,  then,  I  own  I  was  somewhat  displeased — disappointed 
as  it  were — with  that  dish  ;  the  fact  is,  veal  ought  to  be  killed 
in  its  very  first  infancy ;  they  suffer  it  to  grow  to  too  great  an 
age.  It  becomes  a  sort  of  hobbydehoy,  and  possesses  nothing 
of  veal  but  its  insipidity,  or  of  beef  but  its  toughness." 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  "  it  is  only  in  their  veal,  that  the  French  sur- 


OR,  ADVENTURES   OF    A   GENTLEMAN.  225 

pass  us ;  their  other  meats  want  the  ruby  juices  and  elastic 

freshness  of  ours.     Monsieur  L allowed  this  truth,  with  a 

candor  worthy  of  his  vast  mind.  Mon  Dieu!  what  claret! 
What  a  body  !  and,  let  me  add,  what  a  soul,  beneath  it !  Who 
would  drink  wine  like  this?  it  is  only  made  to  taste.  It  is  the 
first  love — too  pure  for  the  eagerness  of  enjoyment ;  the  rapture 
it  inspires  is  in  a  touch,  a  kiss.  It  is  a  pity,  my  lord,  that  we 
do  not  serve  perfumes  at  dessert ;  it  is  their  appropriate  place. 
In  confectionery  (delicate  invention  of  the  Sylphs),  we  imitate 
the  forms  of  the  rose  and  the  jasmine ;  why  not  their  odors 
too  ?  What  is  nature  without  its  scents  ?  And  as  long  as  they 
are  absent  from  our  desserts,  it  is  in  vain  that  the  bard  ex- 
claims : 

'  L'observateur  de  la  belle  Nature 
S'extasie  en  voyant  des  fleurs  en  confiture.'  " 

"  It  is  an  exquisite  idea  of  yours,"  said  Guloseton  ;  "  and 
the  next  time  you  dine  here  we  will  have  perfumes.  Dinner 
ought  to  be  a  reunion  of  all  the  senses : 

'  Gladness  to  the  ear,  nerve,  heart,  and  sense.'" 

There  was  a  momentary  pause.  "  My  lord,"  said  I,  "  what 
a  lusty  lusciousness  in  this  pear  !  It  is  like  the  style  of  the 
old  English  poets.  What  think  you  of  the  seeming  good  un- 
derstanding between  Mr.  Gaskell  and  the  Whigs  ?" 

"  I  trouble  myself  little  about  it,"  replied  Guloseton,  help- 
ing himself  to  some  preserves  ;  "  politics  disturb  the  digestion." 

"  Well,"  thought  I,  "  I  must  ascertain  some  point  in  this 
man's  character  easier  to  handle  than  his  epicurism  :  all  men 
are  vain  :  let  us  find  out  the  peculiar  vanity  of  mine  host." 

"  The  ultra-Tories,"  said  I,  "  seem  to  think  themselves  ex- 
tremely secure  ;  they  attach  no  importance  to  the  neutral 

members  ;  it  was  but  the  other  day  Lord told  me  that  he 

did  not  care  a  straw  for  Mr. ,  notwithstanding  he  possessed 

four  votes.  Heard  you  ever  such  arrogance  ? " 

"  No,  indeed,"  said  Guloseton,  with  a  lazy  air  of  indiffer- 
ence ;  "  are  you  a  favorer  of  the  olive  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  I,  "  I  love  it  not ;  it  hath  an  under  taste  of  sour- 
ness, and  an  upper  of  oil,  which  do  not  make  harmony  to  my 
palate.  But,  as  I  was  saying,  the  Whigs,  on  the  contrary,  pay 
the  utmost  deference  to  their  partisans  ;  and  a  man  of  fortune, 
rank,  and  parliamentary  influence,  might  have  all  the  power, 
without  the  trouble  of  a  leader." 

"Very  likely,"  said  Guloseton  drowsily. 


226  PELHAM  J 

"  I  must  change  my  battery,"  thought  I ;  but  while  I  was 
meditating  a  new  attack,  the  following  note  was  brought  to  me  : 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  Pelham,  come  out  to  me  :  I  am  wait- 
ing in  the  street  to  see  you  ;  come  directly,  or  it  will  be  too 
late  to  render  me  the  service  I  would  ask  of  you. 

"  R.  GLANVILLE." 

I  rose  instantly.  "  You  must  excuse  me,  Lord  Guloseton,  I 
am  called  suddenly  away." 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  "  laughed  the  gourmand  ;  "  some  tempting 
viand — post  prandia  Callirhoe  !  " 

"  My  good  lord,"  said  I,  not  heeding  his  insinuation,  "I 
leave  you  with  the  greatest  regret." 

"  And  I  part  from  you  with  the  same  ;  it  is  a  real  pleasure 
to  see  such  a  person  at  dinner." 

"  Adieu  !  my  host — 'Je  vat's  vivre  et  manger  en  sage' " 

CHAPTER  LIX. 

"  I  do  defy  him,  and  I  spit  at  him, 
Call  him  a  slanderous  coward  and  a  villain — 
Which  to  maintain  I  will  allow  him  odds." 

— SHAKSPEARE. 

I  FOUND  Glanville  walking  before  the  door  with  a  rapid  and 
uneven  step. 

"  Thank  Heaven  !  "  he  said,  when  he  saw  me  ;  "  I  have 
been  twice  to  Mivart's  to  find  you.  The  second  time  I  saw 
your  servant,  who  told  me  where  you  were  gone.  I  knew  you 
well  enough  to  be  sure  of  your  kindness." 

Glanville  broke  off  abruptly  ;  and  after  a  short  pause,  said, 
with  a  quick,  low,  hurried  tone  :  "The  office  I  wish  you  to 
take  upon  yourself  is  this.  Go  immediately  to  Sir  John  Tyr- 
rell, with  a  challenge  from  me.  Ever  since  I  last  saw  you,  I 
have  been  hunting  out  that  man,  and  in  vain.  He  had  then 
left  town.  He  returned  this  evening,  and  quits  to-morrow  ; 
you  have  no  time  to  lose." 

"  My  dear  Glanville,"  said  I,  "  I  have  no  wish  to  learn  any 
secret  you  would  conceal  from  me ;  but  forgive  me  if  I  ask 
some  further  instructions  than  those  you  have  afforded  me. 
Upon  what  plea  am  I  to  call  out  Sir  John  Tyrrell  ?  And  what 
answer  am  I  to  give  to  any  excuses  he  may  make  ?" 

"I  have  anticipated  your  reply,"  said  Glanville,  with  ill- 
subdued  impatience;  "you  have  only  to  give  this  paper  ;  it 
will  prevent  all  discussion.  Read  it  ;  I  have  left  it  unsealed 
for  that  purpose." 


.  OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         227 

I  cast  my  eyes  over  the  lines  Glanville  thrust  into  my  hand  ; 
they  ran  thus  : 

"  The  time  has  at  length  come  for  me  to  demand  the  atone- 
ment so  long  delayed.  The  bearer  of  this,  who  is,  probably, 
known  to  you,  will  arrange,  with  any  person  you  may  appoint, 
the  hour  and  place  of  our  meeting.  He  is  acquainted  with  the 
grounds  of  my  complaint  against  you,  but  he  is  satisfied  of  my 
honor  ;  your  second  will,  I  presume,  be  the  same  with  respect 
to  yours.  It  is  for  me  only  to  question  the  latter,  and  to  de- 
clare you  solemnly  to  be  void  alike  of  principle  and  courage, 
a  villain,  and  a  poltroon.  REGINALD  GLANVILLE." 

"  You  are  my  earliest  friend,"  said  I,  when  I  had  read  this 
soothing  epistle  ;  "  and  I  will  not  flinch  from  the  place  you 
assign  me  ;  but  I  tell  you  fairly  and  frankly  that  I  would 
sooner  cut  off  my  right  hand  than  suffer  it  to  give  this  note 
to  Sir  John  Tyrrell." 

Glanville  made  no  answer;  we  walked  on,  till,  suddenly 
stopping,  he  said  :  "  My  carriage  is  at  the  corner  of  the  street ; 
you  must  go  instantly  ;  Tyrrell  lodges  at  the  Clarendon  ;  you 
will  find  me  at  home  on  your  return." 

I  pressed  his  hand,  and  hurried  on  my  mission.  It  was,  I 
own,  one  peculiarly  unwelcome  and  displeasing.  In  the  first 
place,  I  did  not  love  to  be  made  a  party  in  a  business  of  the 
nature  of  which  I  was  so  profoundly  ignorant.  Secondly,  if 
the  affair  terminated  fatally,  the  world  would  not  lightly  con- 
demn me  for  conveying  to  a  gentleman  of  birth  and  fortune  a 
letter  so  insulting,  and  for  causes  of  which  I  was  so  ignorant. 
Again,  too,  Glanville  was  more  dear  to  me  than  any  one,  judg- 
ing only  of  my  external  character,  would  suppose  ;  and,  con- 
stitutionally indifferent  as  I  am  to  danger  for  myself,  I  trem- 
bled like  a  woman  at  the  peril  I  was  instrumental  in  bringing 
upon  him.  But  what  weighed  upon  me  far  more  than  any  of 
these  reflections  was  the  recollection  of  Ellen.  Should  her 
brother  fall  in  an  engagement  in  which  I  was  his  supposed 
adviser,  with  what  success  could  I  hope  for  those  feelings  from 
her,  which,  at  present,  constituted  the  tenderest  and  the 
brightest  of  my  hopes  ?  In  the  midst  of  these  disagreeable 
ideas  the  carriage  stopped  at  the  door  of  Tyrrell's  Hotel. 

The  waiter  said  Sir  John  was  in  the  coffee-room  ;  thither  I 
immediately  marched.  Seated  in  the  box  nearest  the  fire  sat 
Tyrrell,  and  two  men  of  that  old-fashioned  roue  set,  whose 
members  indulged  in  debauchery  as  if  it  were  an  attribute  of 
manliness,  and  esteemed  it,  as  long  as  it  were  hearty  and 


228  PELHAM  J 

English,  rather  a  virtue  to  boast  of,  than  a  vice  to  disown. 
Tyrrell  nodded  to  me  familiarly  as  I  approached  him  ;  and  I 
saw,  by  the  half-emptied  bottles  before  him,  and  the  flush  of 
his  sallow  countenance,  that  he  had  not  been  sparing  of  his 
libations.  I  whispered  that  I  wished  to  speak  to  him  on  a 
subject  of  great  importance  ;  he  rose  with  much  reluctance, 
and,  after  swallowing  a  large  tumblerful  of  port  wine  to 
fortify  him  for  the  task,  he  led  the  way  to  a  small  room,  where 
he  seated  himself,  and  asked  me,  with  his  usual  mixture  of 
bluntness  and  good-breeding,  the  nature  of  my  business.  I 
made  him  no  reply :  I  contented  myself  with  placing  Glan- 
ville's  billet  doux  in  his  hand.  The  room  was  dimly  lighted 
with  a  single  candle,  and  the  small  and  capricious  fire,  near 
which  the  gambler  was  seated,  threw  its  ar/ze/a/v/ light,  by  starts 
and  intervals,  over  the  strong  features  and  deep  lines  of  his  coun- 
tenance. It  would  have  been  a  study  worthy  of  Rembrandt. 

I  drew  my  chair  near  him,  and  half  shading  my  eyes  with 
my  hand,  sat  down  in  silence  to  mark  the  effect  the  letter 
would  produce.  Tyrrell  (I  imagine)  was  a  man  originally  of 
hardy  nerves,  and  had  been  thrown  much  into  the  various 
situations  of  life  where  the  disguise  of  all  outward  emotion  is 
easily  and  insensibly  taught ;  but  whether  his  frame  had  been 
shattered  by  his  excesses,  or  that  the  insulting  language  of  the 
note  touched  him  to  the  quick,  he  seemed  perfectly  unable  to 
govern  his  feelings  :  the  lines  were  written  hastily,  and  the 
light,  as  I  said  before,  was  faint  and  imperfect,  and  he  was 
forced  to  pause  over  each  word  as  he  proceeded,  so  that  "  the 
iron  "  had  full  time  to  "  enter  into  his  soul." 

Passion,  however,  developed  itself  differently  in  him  than  in 
Glanville  :  in  the  latter,  it  was  a  rapid  transition  of  powerful 
feelings,  one  angry  wave  dashing  over  another ;  it  was  the  pas- 
sion of  a  strong  and  keenly  susceptible  mind,  to  which  every 
sting  was  a  dagger,  and  which  used  the  force  of  a  giant  to  dash 
away  the  insect  which  attacked  it.  In  Tyrrell,  it  was  passion 
acting  on  a  callous  mind  but  a  broken  frame — his  hand  trem- 
bled violently — his  voice  faltered — he  could  scarcely  command 
the  muscles  which  enabled  him  to  speak ;  but  there  was  no 
fiery  start — no  indignant  burst — no  flashing  forth  of  the  soul : — 
in  him,  it  was  the  body  overcoming  and  paralyzing  the  mind  ; 
in  Glanville  it  was  the  mind  governing  and  convulsing  the  body. 

"  Mr.  Pelham,"  he  said  at  last,  after  a  few  preliminary  efforts 
to  clear  his  voice,  "this  note  requires  some  consideration.  I 
know  not  at  present  whom  to  appoint  as  my  second — will  you 
call  upon  me  early  to-morrow?" 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          229 

4<  I  am  sorry,"  said  I,  "  that  my  sole  instructions  were  to  get 
an  immediate  answer  from  you.  Surely  either  of  the  gentle- 
men I  saw  with  you  would  officiate  as  your  second  ?" 

Tyrrell  made  no  reply  for  some  moments.  He  was  endeavor- 
ing to  compose  himself,  and  in  some  measure  he  succeeded. 
He  raised  his  head  with  a  haughty  air  of  defiance,  and  tearing 
the  paper  deliberately,  though  still  with  uncertain  and  trem- 
bling fingers,  he  stamped  his  foot  upon  the  atoms. 

"Tell  your  principal,"  said  he,  "  that  I  retort  upon  him  the 
foul  and  false  words  he  has  uttered  against  me  ;  that  I  trample 
upon  his  assertions  with  the  same  scorn  I  feel  towards  himself ; 
and  that  before  this  hour  to-morrow  I  will  confront  him  to 
death  as  through  life.  For  the  rest,  Mr.  Pelham,  I  cannot 
name  my  second  till  the  morning ;  leave  me  your  address,  and 
you  shall  hear  from  me  before  you  are  stirring.  Have  you 
anything  farther  with  me  ?" 

"  Nothing,"  said  I,  laying  my  card  on  the  table.  "  I  have 
fulfilled  the  most  ungrateful  charge  ever  intrusted  to  me.  I 
wish  you  good-night." 

I  re-entered  the  carriage,  and  drove  to  Glanville's.  I  broke 
into  the  room  rather  abruptly  ;  Glanville  was  leaning  on  the 
table,  and  gazing  intently  on  a  small  miniature.  A  pistol-case 
lay  beside  him  :  one  of  the  pistols  in  order  for  use,  and  the 
other  still  unarranged  ;  the  room  was,  as  usual,  covered  with 
books  and  papers,  and  on  the  costly  cushions  of  the  ottoman 
lay  the  large,  black  dog,  which  I  remembered  well  as  his  com- 
panion of  yore,  and  which  he  kept  with  him  constantly  as  the 
only  thing  in  the  world  whose  society  he  could  at  all  times 
bear  :  the  animal  lay  curled  up,  with  its  quick,  black  eye  fixed 
watchfully  upon  its  master,  and  directly  I  entered,  it  uttered, 
though  without  moving,  a  low,  warning  growl. 

Glanville  looked  up,  and  in  some  confusion  thrust  the  picture 
into  a  drawer  of  the  table,  and  asked  me  my  news.  I  told  him 
word  for  word  what  had  passed.  Glanville  set  his  teeth,  and 
clenched  his  hand  firmly  ;  and  then,  as  if  his  anger  was  at  once 
appeased,  he  suddenly  changed  the  subject  and  tone  of  our 
conversation.  He  spoke  with  great  cheerfulness  and  humor 
on  the  various  topics  of  the  day ;  touched  upon  politics{; 
laughed  at  Lord  Guloseton,  and  seemed  as  indifferent  and  un- 
conscious of  the  event  of  the  morrow  as  my  peculiar  con- 
stitution  would  have  rendered  myself. 

When  I  rose  to  depart,  for  I  had  too  great  an  interest  in  him 
to  feel  much  for  the  subjects  he  conversed  on,  he  said  :  "  I 
shall  write  one  line  to  my  mother,  and  another  to  my  poor 


PELHAM 


sister ;  you  will  deliver  them  if  I  fall,  for  I  have  sworn  that 
one  of  us  shall  not  quit  the  ground  alive.  I  shall  be  all  im- 
patience to  know  the  hour  you  will  arrange  with  Tyrrell's 
second.  God  bless  you,  and  farewell  for  the  present." 


CHAPTER  LX. 

"  Charge,  Chester,  charge  ! " — Marmion. 

"  Though  this  was  one  of  the  first  mercantile  transactions  of  my  life,  I 
had  no  doubt  about  acquitting  myself  with  reputation." — Vicar  of  Wake- 
field. 

THE  next  morning  I  was  at  breakfast  when  a  packet  was 
brought  me  from  Tyrrell ;  it  contained  a  sealed  letter  to  Glan- 
ville,  and  a  brief  note  to  myself.  The  latter  I  transcribe : 

"Mv  DEAR  SIR: 

"  The  enclosed  letter  to  Sir  Reginald  Glanville  will  explain 
my  reasons  for  not  keeping  my  pledge  :  suffice  it  to  state  to 
you,  that  they  are  such  as  wholly  to  exonerate  me,  and  fairly  to 
satisfy  Sir  Reginald.  It  will  be  useless  to  call  upon  me  ;  I 
leave  town  before  you  will  receive  this.  Respect  for  myself 
obliges  me  to  add  that,  although  there  are  circumstances  to 
forbid  my  meeting  Sir  Reginald  Glanville,  there  are  none  to 
prevent  my  demanding  satisfaction  of  any  one,  whoever  he  may 
be,  who  shall  deem  himself  authorized  to  call  my  motives  into 
question.  I  have  the  honor,  etc., 

"JOHN  TYRRELL." 

It  was  not  till  I  had  thrice  read  this  letter  that  I  could  credit 
its  contents.  From  all  I  had  seen  of  Tyrrell's  character  I  had 
no  reason  to  suspect  him  to  be  less  courageous  than  the  gener- 
ality of  worldly  men.  And  yet,  when  I  considered  the  violent 
language  of  Glanville's  letter,  and  Tyrrell's  apparent  resolution 
the  night  before,  I  scarcely  knew  to  what  more  honorable  mo- 
tive than  the  want  of  courage  to  attribute  his  conduct.  How- 
ever, I  lost  no  time  in  despatching  the  whole  packet  to  Glan- 
ville, with  a  few  lines  from  myself  saying  I  should  call  in  an 
hour. 

When  I  fulfilled  this  promise  Glanville's  servant  told  me  hij 
master  had  gone  out  immediately  on  reading  the  letters  I  had 
sent,  and  had  merely  left  word  that  he  should  not  return  home 
the  whole  day.  That  night  he  was  to  have  brought  an  impor- 
tant motion  before  the  House.  A  message  from  him,  pleading 
sudden  and  alarming  illness,  devolved  this  duty  upon  another 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         231 

member  of  his  party.  Lord  Dawton  was  in  despair  ;  the  mo- 
tion was  lost  by  a  great  majority  ;  the  papers,  the  whole  of  that 
week,  were  filled  with  the  most  triumphant  abuse  and  ridicule 
of  the  Whigs.  Never  was  that  unhappy  and  persecuted  party 
reduced  to  so  low  an  ebb  :  never  did  there  seem  a  fainter 
probability  of  their  coming  into  power.  They  appeared  almost 
annihilated — a  mere  nominis  umbra. 

On  the  eighth  day  from  Glanville's  disappearance  a  sudden 
event  in  the  cabinet  threw  the  whole  country  into  confusion  ; 
the  Tories  trembled  to  the  very  soles  of  their  easy  slippers  of 
sinecure  and  office  ;  the  eyes  of  the  public  were  turned  to  the 
Whigs ;  and  chance  seemed  to  effect  in  an  instant  that  change 
in  their  favor  which  all  their  toil,  trouble,  eloquence,  and  art 
had  been  unable  for  so  many  years  to  render  even  a  remote 
probability. 

But  there  was  a  strong  though  secret  party  in  the  state  that, 
concealed  under  a  general  name,  worked  only  for  a  private  end, 
and  made  a  progress  in  number  and  respectability,  not  the  less 
sure  for  being  but  little  suspected.  Foremost  among  the  lead- 
ers of  this  party  was  Lord  Vincent.  Dawton,  who  regarded 
them  with  fear  and  jealousy,  considered  the  struggle  rather  be- 
tween them  and  himself,  than  any  longer  between  himself  and 
the  Tories  ;  and  strove,  while  it  was  yet  time,  to  reinforce  him- 
self by  a  body  of  allies,  which,  should  the  contest  really  take 
place,  might  be  certain  of  giving  him  the  superiority.  The 
Marquis  of  Chester  was  among  the  most  powerful  of  the  neutral 
noblemen  ;  it  was  of  the  greatest  importance  to  gain  him  to 
the  cause.  He  was  a  sturdy,  sporting,  independent  man,  who 
lived  chiefly  in  the  country,  and  turned  his  ambition  rather 
towards  promoting  the  excellence  of  quadrupeds,  than  the  bad 
passions  of  men.  To  this  personage  Lord  Dawton  implored 
me  to  be  the  bearer  of  a  letter,  and  to  aid,  with  all  the  dexterity 
in  my  power,  the  purpose  it  was  intended  to  effect.  It  was  the 
most  consequential  mission  yet  intrusted  to  me,  and  I  felt 
eager  to  turn  my  diplomatic  energies  to  so  good  an  account. 
Accordingly,  one  bright  morning  I  wrapped  myself  carefully 
in  my  cloak,  placed  my  invaluable  person  safely  in  my  carriage, 
and  set  off  to  Chester  Park,  in  the  county  of  Suffolk. 

CHAPTER  LXI. 
"  Hinc  canibus  blandis  rabies  venit." — VIRGIL,  Georg. 

I  SHOULD  have  mentioned  that  the  day  after  I  sent  to  Glan- 
ville  Tyrrell's  communication,  I  received  a  short  and  hurried 


232  PELHAM  ; 

note  from  the  former,  saying,  that  he  had  left  London  in  pur- 
suit of  Tyrrell,  and  that  he  would  not  rest  till  he  had  brought 
him  to  account.  In  the  hurry  of  the  public  events  in  which  I 
had  been  of  late  so  actively  engaged,  my  mind  had  not  had  leis- 
ure to  dwell  much  upon  Glanville  ;  but  when  I  was  alone  in  my 
carriage,  that  singular  being,  and  the  mystery  which  attended 
him,  forced  themselves  upon  my  reflection  in  spite  of  all  the 
importance  of  my  mission. 

I  was  leaning  back  in  my  carriage,  at  (I  think)  Ware,  while 
they  were  changing  horses,  when  a  voice,  strongly  associated 
with  my  meditations,  struck  upon  my  ear.  I  looked  out,  and 
saw  Thornton  standing  in  the  yard,  attired  with  all  his  original 
smartness  of  boot  and  breeches  :  he  was  employed  in  smoking 
a  cigar,  sipping  brandy  and  water,  and  exercising  his  conver- 
sational talents  in  a  mixture  of  slang  and  jockeyism.  addressed 
to  two  or  three  men  of  his  own  rank  of  life,  and  seemingly  his 
companions.  His  brisk  eye  soon  discovered  me,  and  he  swag- 
gered to  the  carriage  door  with  that  ineffable  assurance  of 
manner  which  was  so  peculiarly  his  own. 

"Ah,  ah,  Mr.  Pelham,"  said  he,  "  going  to  Newmarket,  I 
suppose  ?  Bound  there  myself — like  to  be  found  among  my 
betters.  Ha,  ha — excuse  a  pun:  what  odds  on  the  favorite? 
What,  you  won't  bet,  Mr.  Pelham  ?  Close  and  sly  at  present ; 
well,  the  silent  sow  sups  up  all  the  broth — eh  ! — " 

"  I'm  not  going  to  Newmarket,"  I  replied  ;  "I  never  attend 
races." 

"  Indeed  !  "  answered  Thornton.  "  Well,  if  I  was  as  rich  as 
you,  I  would  soon  make  or  spend  a  fortune  on  the  course. 
Seen  Sir  John  Tyrrell  ?  No  !  He  is  to  be  there.  Nothing 
can  cure  him  of  gambling — what's  bred  in  the  bone,  etc. 
Good-day,  Mr.  Pelham  ;  won't  keep  you  any  longer — sharp 
shower  coming  on.  '  The  devil  will  soon  be  basting  his  wife 
with  a  leg  of  mutton,'  as  the  proverb  says  : — servant,  Mr.  Pel- 
ham." 

And  at  these  words  my  post-boy  started,  and  released  me 
from  my  b&te  noire.  I  spare  my  reader  an  account  of  my  mis- 
cellaneous reflections  on  Thornton,  Dawton,  Vincent,  politics, 
Glanville,  and  Ellen,  and  will  land  him,  without  further  delay, 
at  Chester  Park. 

I  was  ushered  through  a  large  oak  hall  of  the  reign  of  James 
the  First,  into  a  room  strongly  resembling  the  principal  apart- 
ment of  a  club  ;  two  or  three  round  tables  were  covered  with 
newspapers,  journals,  racing  calendars,  etc.  An  enormous  fire- 
place was  crowded  with  men  of  all  ages ;  I  had  almost  said,  of 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         233 

all  ranks  ;  but,  however  various  they  might  appear  in  their 
mien  and  attire,  they  were  wholly  of  the  patrician  order.  One 
thing,  however,  in  this  room,  belied  its  likeness  to  the  apart- 
ment of  a  club,  viz.,  a  number  of  dogs  that  lay  in  scattered 
groups  upon  the  floor.  Before  the  windows  were  several 
horses,  in  bodycloths,  led  to  exercise  upon  a  plain  in  the  park, 
levelled  as  smooth  as  a  bowling-green  at  Putney  ;  and,  sta- 
tioned at  an  oriel  window,  in  earnest  attention  to  the  scene 
without,  were  two  men  ;  the  tallest  of  these  was  Lord  Chester. 
There  was  a  stiffness  and  inelegance  in  his  address  which  pre- 
possessed me  strongly  against  him.  "  Les  manieres  que  I'on 
neglige  comme  de  petites  choses,  sont  souvent  ce  qui fait  que  les 
hommes  de'cident  de  vous  en  bien  ou  en  ma/."  * 

I  had  long  since,  when  I  was  at  the  University,  been  intro- 
duced to  Lord  Chester  ;  but  I  had  quite  forgotten  his  person, 
and  he  the  very  circumstance.  I  said,  in  a  low  tone,  that  I  was 
the  bearer  of  a  letter  of  some  importance,  from  our  mutual 
friend,  Lord  Dawton,  and  that  I  should  request  the  honor  of  a 
private  interview  at  Lord  Chester's  first  convenience. 

His  lordship  bowed,  with  an  odd  mixture  of  the  civility  of  a 
jockey  and  the  hauteur  of  a  head  groom  of  the  stud,  and  led 
the  way  to  a  small  apartment,  which  I  afterwards  discovered  he 
called  his  own.  (I  never  could  make  out,  by  the  way,  why,  in 
England,  the  very  worst  room  in  the  house  is  always  appropri- 
ated to  the  master  of  it,  and  dignified  by  the  appellation  of 
"  the  gentleman's  own.")  I  gave  the  Newmarket  grandee  the 
letter  intended  for  him,  and  quietly  seating  myself,  awaited  the 
result. 

He  read  it  through  slowly  and  silently,  and  then,  taking  out 
a  huge  pocket-book,  full  of  racing  bets,  horse's  ages,  jockey 
opinions,  and  such  like  memoranda,  he  placed  it  with  much 
solemnity  among  this  dignified  company,  and  said,  with  a  cold, 
but  would-be  courteous  air,  "  My  friend,  Lord  Dawton,  says 
you  are  entirely  in  his  confidence,  Mr.  Pelham.  I  hope  you 
will  honor  me  with  your  company  at  Chester  Park  for  two  or 
three  days,  during  which  time  I  shall  have  leisure  to  reply  to 
Lord  Dawton's  letter.  Will  you  take  some  refreshment  ?" 

I  answered  the  first  sentence  in  the  affirmative,  and  the  lat- 
ter in  the  negative  ;  and  Lord  Chester,  thinking  it  perfectly 
unnecessary  to  trouble  himself  with  any  further  questions  or 
remarks,  which  the  whole  jockey  club  might  not  hear,  took  me 
back  into  the  room  we  had  quitted,  and  left  me  to  find,  or 

_  *  The  manners  which  one  neglects  as   trifles,  are  often  precisely  that  by  which  men  dei 
pide  on  you  favorably  or  the  reverse. 


234  PELHAM  ; 

make,  whatever  acquaintance  I  could.  Pampered  and  spoiled 
as  I  was  in  the  most  difficult  circles  of  London,  I  was  beyond 
measure  indignant  at  the  cavalier  demeanor  of  this  rustic 
thane,  who,  despite  his  marquisate  and  his  acres,  was  not  less 
below  me  in  the  aristocracy  of  ancient  birth,  than  in  that  of 
cultivated  intellect.  .  I  looked  round  the  room,  and  did  not 
recognize  a  being  of  my  acquaintance.  I  seemed  literally 
thrown  into  a  new  world  :  the  very  language  in  which  the  con- 
versation was  held  sounded  strange  to  my  ear.  I  had  always 
transgressed  my  general  rule  of  knowing  all  men  in  all  grades, 
in  the  single  respect  of  sporting  characters :  they  were  a  spe- 
cies of  bipeds  that  I  would  never  recognize  as  belonging  to  the 
human  race.  Alas  !  I  now  found  the  bitter  effects  of  not  follow- 
ing my  usual  maxims.  It  is  a  dangerous  thing  to  encourage 
too  great  a  disdain  of  Bone's  inferiors:  pride  must  have  a 
fall. 

After  I  had  been  a  whole  quarter  of  an  hour  in  this  strange 
place,  my  better  genius  came  to  my  aid.  Since  I  found  no  so- 
ciety among  the  two-legged  brutes,  I  turned  to  the  quadru- 
peds. At  one  corner  of  the  room  lay  a  black  terrier  of  the  true 
English  breed  ;  at  another  was  a  short,  sturdy,  wiry  one,  of  the 
Scotch.  I  soon  formed  a  friendship  with  each  of  these  canine 
Pelei  (little  bodies  with  great  souls),  and  then  by  degrees  al- 
luring them  from  their  retreat  to  the  centre  of  the  room,  I 
fairly  endeavored  to  set  them  by  the  ears.  Thanks  to  the 
national  antipathy,  I  succeeded  to  my  heart's  content.  The 
contest  soon  aroused  the  other  individuals  of  the  genus — up 
they  started  from  their  repose,  like  Roderic  Dhu's  merry  men, 
and  incontinently  flocked  to  the  scene  of  battle.  The  ex- 
ample became  contagious.  In  a  very  few  moments,  the  whole 
room  was  a  scene  of  uproarious  confusion  ;  the  beasts  yelled, 
and  bit,  and  struggled  with  the  most  delectable  ferocity.  To 
add  to  the  effect,  the  various  owners  of  the  dogs  crowded 
round — some  to  stimulate,  others  to  appease,  the  fury  of  the 
combatants.  At  length,  the  conflict  was  assuaged.  By  dint 
of  blows,  and  kicks,  and  remonstrances  from  their  dignified 
proprietors,  the  dogs  slowly  withdrew,  one  with  the  loss  of 
half  an  ear,  another  with  a  mouth  increased  by  one-half  of  its 
natural  dimensions,  and,  in  short,  every  one  of  the  combatants 
with  some  token  of  the  severity  of  the  conflict.  I  did  not  wait 
for  the  thunder-storm  I  foresaw  in  the  inquiry  as  to  the  origin 
of  the  war  :  I  rose  with  a  nonchalant  yawn  of  enm/i,  marched 
out  of  the  apartment,  called  a  servant,  demanded  my  own 
room,  repaired  to  it,  and  immersed  the  internal  faculties  of  my 


Oft,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         23$ 

head  in  Mignet's  "History  of  the  Revolution,"  while  Bedos 
busied  himself  in  its  outward  embellishment. 

CHAPTER   LXII. 

' '  Noster  ludos,  spectaverat  una, 
Luserat  in  campo,  Fortunse  nlius,  omnes." — HOR. 

I  DID  not  leave  my  room  till  the  first  dinner-bell  had  ceased 
a  sufficient  time  to  allow  me  the  pleasing  hope  that  I  should 
have  but  a  few  moments  to  wait  in  the  drawing-room  pre- 
viously to  the  grand  epoch  and  ceremony  of  an  European  day. 
The  manner  most  natural  to  me  is  one  rather  open  and  easy  ; 
but  I  pique  myself  peculiarly  upon  a  certain  (though  occa- 
sional) air  which  keeps  impertinence  aloof.  This  day  1  assumed 
a  double  quantum  of  dignity  in  entering  a  room  which  I  well 
"knew  would  not  be  filled  with  my  admirers ;  there  were  a  few 
women  round  Lady  Chester,  and,  as  I  always  feel  reassured 
by  a  sight  of  the  dear  sex,  I  walked  towards  them. 

Judge  of  my  delight  when  I  discovered,  amongst  the  group, 
Lady  Harriet  Garrett.  It  is  true  that  I  had  no  particular  pre- 
dilection for  that  lady  ;  but  the  sight  of  a  negress  I  had  seen 
before  I  should  have  hailed  with  rapture  in  so  desolate  and  in- 
hospitable a  place.  If  my  pleasure  at  seeing  Lady  Harriet  was 
great,  hers  seemed  equally  so  at  receiving  my  salutation.  She 
asked  me  if  I  knew  Lady  Chester ;  and  on  my  negative  reply, 
immediately  introduced  me  to  that  personage.  I  now  found 
myself  quite  at  home  ;  my  spirits  rose,  and  I  exerted  every 
nerve  to  be  as  charming  as  possible.  In  youth,  to  endeavor  is 
to  succeed. 

I  gave  a  most  animated  account  of  the  canine  battle,  inter- 
spersed with  various  sarcasms  on  the  owners  of  the  combat- 
ants, which  were  by  no  means  ill-received  either  by  the  mar- 
chioness or  her  companions  ;  and,  in  fact,  when  the  dinner  was 
announced,  they  all  rose  in  a  mirth  sufficiently  unrestrained 
to  be  anything  but  patrician  ;  for  my  part,  I  offered  my  arm 
to  Lady  Harriet,  and  paid  her  as  many  compliments  on  cross- 
ing the  suite  that  led  to  the  dining-room  as  would  have  turned 
a  much  wiser  head  than  her  ladyship's. 

The  dinner  went  off  agreeably  enough,  as  long  as  the 
women  stayed,  but  the  moment  they  quitted  the  room  I  ex- 
perienced exactly  the  same  feeling  known  unto  a  mother's 
darling,  left  for  the  first  time  at  that  strange,  cold,  comfortless 
place,  ycleped  a  school. 

I  was  not,  however,  in  a  mood  to  suffer  my  flowers  of  oratory 


2;$6  PELHAM  } 

to  blush  unseen.  Besides,  it  was  absolutely  necessary  that  I 
should  make  a  better  impression  upon  my  host.  I  leant, 
therefore,  across  the  table,  and  listened  eagerly  to  the  various 
conversations  afloat  :  at  last  I  perceived  on  the  opposite  side 
Sir  Lionel  Garrett,  a  personage  whom  I  had  not  before  even 
inquired  after,  or  thought  of.  He  was  busily  and  noisily  em- 
ployed in  discussing  the  game-laws.  Thank  Heaven,  thought 
I,  I  shall  be  on  firm  ground  there.  The  general  interest 
of  the  subject,  and  the  loudness  with  which  it  was  debated, 
soon  drew  all  the  scattered  conversation  into  one  focus. 

"What!  "said  Sir  Lionel,  in  a  high  voice,  to  a  modest, 
shrinking  youth,  probably  from  Cambridge,  who  had  supported 
the  liberal  side  of  the  question :  "  What  !  Are  our  interests 
never  consulted  ?  Are  we  to  have  our  only  amusement  taken 
away  from  us?  What  do  you  imagine  brings  country  gentle- 
man to  their  seats  ?  Do  you  not  know,  sir,  the  vast  importance 
our  residence  at  our  country  houses  is  to  the  nation  ?  Destroy 
the  game-laws,  and  you  destroy  our  very  existence  as  a  people  !  " 

"  Now,"  thought  I,  "  it  is  my  time."  "Sir  Lionel,"  said  I, 
speaking  almost  from  one  end  of  the  table  to  the  other,  "I 
perfectly  agree  with  your  sentiments  ;  I  am  entirely  of  opinion, 
first,  that  it  is  absolutely  necessary  for  the  safety  of  the  nation 
that  game  should  be  preserved  ;  secondly,  that  if  you  take 
away  game  you  take  away  country  gentlemen  :  no  two  propo- 
sitions can  be  clearer  than  these  ;  but  I  do  differ  from  you  with 
respect  to  the  intended  alterations.  Let  us  put  wholly  out  of 
the  question  the  interests  of  the  poor  people,  or  of  society  at 
large  :  those  are  minor  matters,  not  worthy  of  a  moment's  con- 
sideration ;  let  us  only  see  how  far  our  interests  as  sportsmen 
will  be  affected.  I  think  by  a  very  few  words  I  can  clearly 
prove  to  you  that  the  proposed  alterations  will  make  us  much 
better  off  than  we  are  at  present." 

I  then  entered  shortly,  yet  fully  enough,  into  the  nature  of  the 
laws  as  they  now  stood,  and  as  they  were  intended  to  be 
changed.  I  first  spoke  of  the  two  great  disadvantages  of  the 
present  system  to  country  gentlemen,  viz.,  in  the  number  of 
poachers,  and  the  expense  of  preserving.  Observing  that  I 
was  generally  and  attentively  listened  to,  I  dwelt  upon  these 
two  points  with  much  pathetic  energy  ;  and  having  paused  till 
I  had  got  Sir  Lionel  and  one  or  two  of  his  supporters  to  con- 
fess that  it  would  be  highly  desirable  that  these  defects  should, 
if  possible,  be  remedied,  I  proceeded  to  show  how,  and  in  what 
manner,  it  was  possible.  I  argued  that  to  effect  this  possi- 
bility was  the  exact  object  of  the  alterations  suggested  ;  I  an- 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         237 

ticipated  the  objections  ;  I  answered  them  in  the  form  of  prop- 
ositions as  clearly  and  concisely  stated  as  possible  ;  and  as  I 
spoke  with  great  civility  and  conciliation,  and  put  aside  every 
appearance  of  care  for  any  human  being  in  the  world  who  was 
not  possessed  of  a  qualification,  I  perceived  at  the  conclusion 
of  my  harangue  that  I  had  made  a  very  favorable  impression. 
That  evening  completed  my  triumph  ;  for  Lady  Chester  and 
Lady  Harriet  made  so  good  a  story  of  my  adventure  with  the 
dogs,  that  the  matter  passed  off  as  a  famous  joke,  and  I  was 
soon  considered  by  the  whole  knot  as  a  devilish  amusing,  good- 
natured,  sensible  fellow.  So  true  is  it  that  there  is  no  situation 
which  a  little  tact  can  not  turn  to  our  own  account  ;  manage 
yourself  well,  and  you  may  manage  all  the  world. 

As  for  Lord  Chester,  I  soon  won  his  heart  by  a  few  feats  of 
horsemanship,  and  a  few  extempore  inventions  respecting  the 
sagacity  of  dogs.  Three  days  after  my  arrival  we  became  in- 
separable ;  and  I  made  such  good  use  of  my  time  that  in  two 
more  he  spoke  to  me  of  his  friendship  for  Dawton,  and  his 
wish  for  a  dukedom.  These  motives  it  was  easy  enough 
to  unite,  and  at  last  he  promised  me  that  his  answer  to  my 
principal  should  be  as  acquiescent  as  I  could  desire  ;  the  morn- 
ing after  this  promise  commenced  the  great  day  at  Newmarket. 

Our  whole  party  were  of  course  bound  to  the  race-ground, 
and  with  great  reluctance  I  was  pressed  into  the  service.  We 
were  not  many  miles  distant  from  the  course,  and  Lord  Ches- 
ter mounted  me  on  one  of  his  horses.  Our  shortest  way  lay 
through  rather  an  intricate  series  of  cross-roads  :  and  as  I  was 
very  little  interested  in  the  conversation  of  my  companions,  I 
paid  more  attention  to  the  scenery  we  passed  than  is  my  cus- 
tomary wont  :  for  I  study  nature  rather  in  men  than  fields,  and 
find  no  landscape  afford  such  variety  to  the  eye,  and  such  sub- 
ject to  the  contemplation,  as  the  inequalities  of  the  human  heart. 

But  there  were  to  be  fearful  circumstances  hereafter  to  stamp 
forcibly  upon  my  remembrance  some  traces  of  the  scenery 
which  now  courted  and  arrested  my  view.  The  chief  charac- 
teristics of  the  country  were  broad,  dreary  plains,  diversified 
at  times  by  dark  plantations  of  fir  and  larch  ;  the  road  was 
rough  and  stony,  and  here  and  there  a  melancholy  rivulet, 
swelled  by  the  first  rains  of  spring,  crossed  our  path,  and  lost 
itself  in  the  rank  weeds  of  some  inhospitable  marsh. 

About  six  miles  from  Chester  Park,  to  the  left  of  the  road, 
stood  an  old  house  with  a  new  face  ;  the  brown,  time-honored 
bricks  which  composed  the  fabric  were  strongly  contrasted  by 
large  Venetian  windows  newly  inserted  in  frames  of  the  most 


238 

ostentatious  white.  A  smart,  green  veranda,  scarcely  finished, 
ran  along  the  low  portico,  and  formed  the  termination  to  two 
thin  rows  of  meagre  and  dwarfish  sycamores,  which  did  duty 
for  an  avenue,  and  were  bounded  on  the  roadside  by  a  spruce 
white  gate,  and  a  sprucer  lodge,  so  moderate  in  its  dimensions 
that  it  would  scarcely  .have  boiled  a  turnip  !  If  a  rat  had  got 
into  it,  he  might  have  run  away  with  it !  The  ground  was  dug 
in  various  places,  as  if  for  the  purpose  of  further  improvements, 
and  here  and  there  a  sickly  little  tree  was  carefully  hurdled 
round,  and  seemed  pining  its  puny  heart  out  at  the  confinement. 

In  spite  of  all  these  well-judged  and  well-thriving  graces  of 
art,  there  was  such  a  comfortless  and  desolate  appearance  about 
the  place,  that  it  quite  froze  one  to  look  at  it  ;  to  be  sure,  a 
damp  rr/arsh  on  one  side,  and  the  skeleton  rafters  and  beams 
of  an  old  stable  on  the  other,  backed  by  a  few  dull  and  sulky- 
looking  fir-trees,  might  in  some  measure  create,  or  at  least  con- 
siderably add  to,  the  indescribable  cheerlessness  of  the  tout  en- 
semble. While  I  was  curiously  surveying  the  various  parts  of 
this  northern  "  De'lices"  and  marvelling  at  the  choice  of  two 
crows  who  were  slowly  walking  over  the  unwholesome  ground, 
instead  of  making  all  possible  use  of  the  black  wings  with 
which  Providence  had  gifted  them,  I  perceived  two  men  on 
horseback  wind  round  from  the  back  part  of  the  building,  and 
proceed  in  a  brisk  trot  down  the  avenue.  We  had  not  advanced 
many  paces  before  they  overtook  us  ;  the  foremost  of  them 
turned  round  as  he  passed  me,  and  pulling  up  his  horse  abrupt- 
ly, discovered  to  my  dismayed  view  the  features  of  Mr.  Thorn- 
ton. Nothing  abashed  by  the  slightness  of  my  bow,  or  the 
grave  stares  of  my  lordly  companions,  who  never  forgot  the  dig- 
nity of  their  birth,  in  spite  of  the  vulgarity  of  their  tastes, 
Thornton  instantly  and  familiarly  accosted  me. 

"  Told  you  so,  Mr.  Pelham — silent  sow,  etc.  Sure  I  should 
have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you,  though  you  kept  so  snug. 
Well,  will  you  bet  noiv?  No  !  Ah,  you're  a  sly  one.  Staying 
here  at  that  nice-looking  house — belongs  to  Dawson,  an  old 
friend  of  mine — shall  be  happy  to  introduce  you  !  " 

"  Sir,"  said  I  abruptly,  "  you  are  too  good.  Permit  me  to  re- 
quest that  you  will  rejoin  your  friend  Mr.  Dawson." 

"  Oh,"  said  the  imperturbable  Thornton,  "  it  does  not  signi- 
fy ;  he  won't  be  affronted  at  my  lagging  a  little.  However," 
(and,  here  he  caught  my  eye,  which  was  assuming  a  sternness 
that  perhaps  little  pleased  him),  "however,  as  it  gets  late,  and 
my  mare  is  none  of  the  best,  I'll  wish  you  good-morning." 
With  these  words  Thornton  put  spurs  to  his  horse  and  trotted  off. 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         23$ 

"Who  the  devil  have  you  got  there,  Pelham?"  said  Lord 
Chester. 

"  A  person,"  said  I,  "  who  picked  me  up  at  Paris,  and  insists 
on  the  right  of  'treasure  trove  '  to  claim  me  in  England.  But 
will  you  let  me  ask,  in  my  turn,  whom  that  cheerful  mansion 
we  have  just  left  belongs  to  ?" 

"  To  a  Mr.  Dawson,  whose  father  was  a  gentleman  farmer 
who  bred  horses, — a  very  respectable  person,  for  I  made  one 
or  two  excellent  bargains  with  him.  The  son  was  always  on 
the  turf  and  contracted  the  worst  of  its  habits.  He  bears  but 
a  very  indifferent  character,  and  will  probably  become  a  com- 
plete blackleg.  He  married,  a  short  time  since,  a  woman  of 
some  fortune,  and  I  suppose  it  is  her  taste  which  has  so  altered 
and  modernized  his  house.  Come,  gentlemen,  we  are  on  even 
ground,  shall  we  trot  ?  " 

We  proceeded  but  a  few  yards  before  we  were  again  stopped 
by  a  precipitous  ascent,  and  as  Lord  Chester  was  then  earnestly 
engaged  in  praising  his  horse  to  one  of  the  cavalcade,  I  had 
time  to  remark  the  spot.  At  the  foot  of  the  hill  we  were  about 
slowly  to  ascend  was  a  broad,  unenclosed  patch  of  waste  land  ;  a 
heron,  flapping  its  enormous  wings  as  it  rose,  directed  my  atten- 
tion to  a  pool  overgrown  with  rushes,  and  half-sheltered  on  one 
side  by  a  decayed  tree,  which,  if  one  might  judge  from  the  breadth 
and  hollowness  of  its  trunk,  had  been  a  refuge  to  the  wild  bird, 
and  a  shelter  to  the  wild  cattle,  at  a  time  when  such  were 
the  only  intruders  upon  its  hospitality ;  and  when  the  country, 
for  miles  and  leagues  round,  was  honored  by  as  little  of  man's 
care  and  cultivation  as  was  at  present  the  rank  waste  which 
still  nourished  the  gnarled  and  venerable  roots  of  that  single 
tree.  There  was  something  remarkably  singular  and  grotesque 
in  the  shape  and  sinuosity  of  its  naked  and  spectral  branches ; 
two  of  exceeding  length  stretched  themselves  forth,  in  the  very 
semblance  of  arms  held  out  in  the  attitude  of  supplication  ; 
and  the  bend  of  the  trunk  over  the  desolate  pond,  the  form  of 
the  hoary  and  blasted  summit,  and  the  hollow  trunk  half  riven 
asunder  in  the  shape  of  limbs,  seemed  to  favor  the  gigantic  de- 
ception. You  might  have  imagined  it  an  antediluvian  transfor- 
mation, or  a  daughter  of  the  Titan  race,  preserving,  in  her  meta- 
morphosis, her  attitude  of  entreaty  to  the  merciless  Olympian. 

This  was  the  only  tree  visible ;  for  a  turn  of  the  road,  and 
the  unevenness  of  the  ground,  completely  veiled  the  house  we 
had  passed,  and  the  few  low  firs  and  sycamores  which  made  its 
only  plantations.  The  sullen  pool — its  ghost-like  guardian — 
the  dreary  heath  around,  the  rude  features  of  the  country  be- 


340  PELHAM  ; 

yond,  and  the  apparent  absence  of  all  human  habitation,  con- 
spired to  make  a  scene  of  the  most  dispiriting  and  striking  des- 
olation. I  know  not  how  to  account  for  it,  but,  as  I  gazed 
around  in  silence,  the  whole  place  appeared  to  grow  over  my 
mind,  as  one  which  I  had  seen,  though  dimly  and  drearily,  as 
in  a  dream,  before  ;  and  a  nameless  and  unaccountable  pre- 
sentiment of  fear  and  evil  sank  like  ice  into  my  heart.  We  as- 
cended the  hill,  and,  the  rest  of  the  road  being  of  a  kind 
better  adapted  to  expedition,  we  mended  our  pace  and  soon 
arrived  at  the  goal  of  our  journey. 

The  race-ground  had  its  customary  complement  of  knaves 
and  fools — the  dupers  and  the  duped.  Poor  Lady  Chester, 
who  had  proceeded  to  the  ground  by  the  highroad  (for  the  way 
we  had  chosen  was  inaccessible  to  those  who  ride  in  chariots, 
and  whose  charioteers  are  set  up  in  high  places),  was  driving 
to  and  fro,  the  very  picture  of  cold  and  discomfort ;  and  the 
few  solitary  carriages  which  honored  the  course  looked  as  mis- 
erable as  if  they  were  witnessing  the  funeral  of  their  owners' 
persons,  rather  than  the  peril  of  their  characters  and  purses. 

As  we  rode  along  to  the  betting-post  Sir  John  Tyrrell  passed 
us  :  Lord  Chester  accosted  him  familiarly,  and  the  baronet  joined 
us.  He  had  been  an  old  votary  of  the  turf  in  his  younger  days, 
and  he  still  preserved  all  his  ancient  predilection  in  its  favor. 

It  seemed  that  Chester  had  not  met  him  for  many  years,  and 
after  a  short  and  characteristic  conversation  of  "  God  bless  me, 
how  long  since  I  saw  you  ! — good  horse  you're  on  ; — you  look 
thin  ; — admirable  condition  ; — what  have  you  been  doing  ? — 
grand  action; — aint  we  behindhand? — famous  forehand; — > 
recollect  old  Queensbury  ? — hot  in  the  mouth  ; — gone  to  the 
devil; — what  are  the  odds?"  Lord  Chester  asked  Tyrrell  to 
go  home  with  us.  The  invitation  was  readily  excepted. 

"  With  impotence  of  will 
We  wheel,  though  ghastly  shadows  interpose 
Round  us,  and  round  each  other."  * 

Now  then  arose  the  noise,  the  clatter,  the  swearing,  the  lying, 
the  perjury,  the  cheating,  the  crowd,  the  bustle,  the  hurry,  the 
rush,  the  heat,  the  ardor,  the  impatience,  the  hope,  the  terror, 
the  rapture,  the  agony  of  the  RACE.  The  instant  the  first  heat 
was  over,  one  asked  me  one  thing,  one  bellowed  another ;  I 
fled  to  Lord  Chester  ;  he  did  not  heed  me.  I  took  refuge  with 
the  marchioness ;  she  was  as  sullen  as  an  east  wind  could 
make  her.  Lady  Harriet  would  talk  of  nothing  but  the  horses  ; 
Sir  Lionel  would  not  talk  at  all.  I  was  in  the  lowest  pit  of 

*  Shelley. 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         241 

despondency,  and  the  devils  that  kept  me  there  were  as  blue 
as  Lady  Chester's  nose.  Silent,  sad,  sorrowful,  and  sulky,  I 
rode  away  from  the  crowd,  and  moralized  on  its  vicious  pro- 
pensities. One  grows  marvellously  honest  when  the  species  of 
cheating  before  us  is  not  suited  to  oneself.  Fortunately,  my 
better  angel  reminded  me  that  about  the  distance  of  three 
miles  from  the  course  lived  an  old  college  friend,  blessed,  since 
vre  had  met,  with  a  parsonage  and  a  wife.  I  knew  his  tastes  too 
well  to  imagine  that  any  allurement  of  an  equestrian  nature  could 
have  seduced  him  from  the  ease  of  his  library  and  the  dignity  of 
bis  books  ;  and  hoping,  therefore,  that  I  should  find  him  at 
home,  I  turned  my  horse's  head  in  an  opposite  direction,  and, 
rejoiced  at  the  idea  of  my  escape,  bade  adieu  to  the  course. 

As  I  cantered  across  the  far  end  of  the  heath  my  horse 
started  from  an  object  upon  the  ground  ;  it  was  a  man  wrapped 
from  head  to  foot  in  a  long  horseman's  cloak,  and  so  well 
guarded  as  to  the  face  from  the  raw  inclemency  of  the  day, 
that  I  could  not  catch  even  a  glimpse  of  the  features,  through 
the  hat  and  neck-shawl  which  concealed  them.  The  head  was 
turned,  with  apparent  anxiety,  towards  the  distant  throng  ;  and 
imagining  the  man  belonging  to  the  lower  orders,  with  whom 
I  am  always  familiar,  I  addressed  to  him,  en  passant,  some 
trifling  remark  on  the  event  of  the  race.  He  made  no  answer. 
There  was  something  about  him  which  induced  me  to  look 
back  several  moments  after  I  had  left  him  behind.  He  had 
not  moved  an  inch.  There  is  such  a  certain  uncomfortable- 
ness  always  occcasioned  to  the  mind  by  stillness  and  mystery 
united,  that  even  the  disguising  garb,  and  motionless  silence  of 
the  man,  innocent  as  I  thought  they  must  have  been,  impressed 
themselves  disagreeably  on  my  meditations  as  I  rode  briskly  on. 

It  is  my  maxim  never  to  be  unpleasantly  employed,  even 
in  thought,  if  I  can  help  it  ;  accordingly  I  changed  the  course 
of  my  reflection,  and  amused  myself  with  wondering  how  mat- 
rimony and  clerical  dignity  sat  on  the  indolent  shoulders  of 
my  old  acquaintance. 

CHAPTER   LXIII. 

"  And  as  for  me,  tho'  that  I  can  but  lite 
On  bookes  for  me  to  read,  I  me  delight, 
And  to  hem  give  I  faith  and  full  credence, 
And  in  mine  heart  have  hem  in  reverence, 
So  heartily  that  there  is  game  none, 
That  fro'  my  bookes  maketh  me  to  gone." — CHAUCER. 

CHRISTOPHER  CLUTTERBUCK  was  a  common  individual  of 
a  common  order,  but  little  known  in  this  busy  and  toiling 


242  PELHAM  ; 

world.  I  cannot  flatter  myself  that  I  am  about  to  present  to 
your  notice  that  rara  avis,  a  new  character  ;  yet  there  is  some- 
thing interesting,  and  even  unhackneyed,  in  the  retired  and 
simple  class  to  which  he  belongs;  and  before  I  proceed  to  a 
darker  period  in  my  memoirs,  I  feel  a  calm  and  tranquillizing 
pleasure  in  the  rest  which  a  brief  and  imperfect  delineation  of 
my  college  companion  affords  me.  -  My  friend  came  up  to  the 
University  with  the  learning  which  one  about  to  quit  the 
world  might,  with  credit,  have  boasted  of  possessing,  and  the 
simplicity  which  one  about  to  enter  it  would  have  been 
ashamed  to  confess.  Quiet  and  shy  in  his  habits  and  his  man- 
ners, he  was  never  seen  out  of  the  precincts  of  his  apartment, 
except  in  obedience  to  the  stated  calls  of  dinner,  lectures,  and 
chapel.  Then  his  small  and  stooping  form  might  be  marked 
crossing  the  quadrangle  with  a  hurried  step,  and  cautiously 
avoiding  the  smallest  blade  of  the  barren  grass-plots,  which 
are  forbidden  ground  to  the  feet  of  all  the  lower  orders  of  the 
collegiate  oligarchy.  Many  were  the  smiles  and  the  jeers, 
from  the  worse-natured  and  better-appointed  students,  who 
loitered  idly  along  the  court,  at  the  rude  garb  and  saturnine 
appearance  of  the  humble  undergraduate  ;  and  the  calm 
countenance  of  the  grave  but  amiable  man,  who  then  bore 
the  honor  and  onus  of  mathematical  lecturer  at  our  college, 
would  soften  into  a  glance  of  mingled  approbation  and  pity, 
as  he  noticed  the  eagerness  which  spoke  from  the  wan  cheek 
and  emaciated  frame  of  the  ablest  of  his  pupils,  hurrying — after 
each  legitimate  interruption — to  the  enjoyment  of  the  crabbed 
characters  and  worm-worn  volumes  which  contained  for  him 
all  the  seductions  of  pleasure,  and  all  the  temptations  of 
youth. 

It  is  a  melancholy  thing,  which  none  but  those  educated  at 
a  college  can  understand,  to  see  the  debilitated  frames  of  the 
aspirants  for  academical  honors  ;  to  mark  the  prime — the 
verdure — the  glory — the  life — of  life  wasted  irrevocably  away 
in  a  labor  inepliarum,  which  brings  no  harvest  either  to  others 
or  themselves.  For  the  poet,  the  philosopher,  the  man  of 
science,  we  can  appreciate  the  recompense  if  we  commiserate 
the  sacrifice ;  from  the  darkness  of  their  retreat  there  goes  a 
light — from  the  silence  of  their  studies  there  issues  a  voice — 
to  illumine  or  convince.  We  can  imagine  them  looking  from 
their  privations  to  the  far  visions  of  the  future,  and  hugging 
to  their  hearts,  in  the  strength  of  no  unnatural  vanity,  the 
reward  which  their  labors  are  certain  hereafter  to  obtain.  To 
those  who  can  anticipate  the  vast  dominions  of  immortality 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.  243 

among  men,  what  boots  the  sterility  of  the  cabined  and  petty 
present?  But  the  mere  man  of  languages  and  learning — the 
machine  of  a  memory  heavily  but  unprofitably  employed — the 
Columbus  wasting  at  the  galley  oar  the  energies  which  should 
have  discovered  a  world — for  him  there  is  no  day-dream  of 
the  future,  no  grasp  at  the  immortality  of  fame.  Beyond  the 
walls  of  his  narrow  room  he  knows  no  object  ;  beyond  the 
elucidation  of  a  dead  tongue  he  indulges  no  ambition  ;  his 
life  is  one  long  school-day  of  lexicons  and  grammars — a  Fabric 
of  Ice,  cautiously  excluded  from  a  single  sunbeam — elaborately 
useless,  ingeniously  unprofitable  ;  and  leaving,  at  the  moment 
it  melts  away,  not  a  single  trace  of  the  space  it  occupied,  or 
the  labor  it  cost. 

At  the  time  I  went  to  the  University  my  poor  collegian  had 
attained  all  the  honors  his  employment  could  ever  procure 
him.  He  had  been  a  Pitt  scholar ;  he  was  a  senior  wrangler, 
and  a  Fellow  of  his  college.  It  often  happened  that  I  found 
myself  next  to  him  at  dinner,  and  I  was  struck  by  his  absti- 
nence, and  pleased  with  his  modesty,  despite  the  gauchcrie  of 
his  manner,  and  the  fashion  of  his  garb.  By  degrees  I  insinu- 
ated myself  into  his  acquaintance  ;  and  as  I  had  always  some 
love  of  scholastic  lore,  I  took  frequent  opportunities  of  convers- 
ing with  him  upon  Horace,  and  consulting  him  upon  Lucian. 

Many  a  dim  twilight  have  we  sat  together,  reviving  each 
other's  recollection,  and  occasionally  relaxing  into  the  grave 
amusement  of  capping  verses.  Then,  if  by  any  chance  my 
ingenuity  or  memory  enabled  me  to  puzzle  my  companion,  his 
good  temper  would  lose  itself  in  a  quaint  pettishness,  or  he 
would  hurl  against  me  some  line  of  Aristophanes,  and  ask  me, 
with  a  raised  voice,  and  arch  brow,  to  give  him  a  fitting  answer 
to  that.  But  if,  as  was  much  more  frequently  the  case,  he 
fairly  ran  me  down  into  a  pause  and  confession  of  inability, 
he  would  rub  his  hands  with  a  strange  chuckle,  and  offer  me, 
in  the  bounteousness  of  his  heart,  to  read  aloud  a  Greek  Ode 
of  his  own,  while  he  treated  me  "to  a  dish  of  tea."  There 
was  much  in  the  good  man's  innocence,  and  guilelessness  of 
soul,  which  made  me  love  him,  and  I  did  not  rest  till  I  had 
procured  him,  before  I  left  the  University,  the  living  which 
he  now  held.  Since  then  he  had  married  the  daughter  of  a 
neighboring  clergyman — an  event  of  which  he  had  duly  in- 
formed me ;  but,  though  this  great  step  in  the  life  of  "a  read- 
ing man "  had  not  taken  place  many  months  since,  I  had 
completely,  after  a  hearty  wish  for  his  domestic  happiness, 
consigned  it  to  a  dormant  place  in  my  recollection. 


244  PELHAM  ; 

The  house  which  I  now  began  to  approach  was  small,  but 
comfortable ;  perhaps  there  was  something  melancholy  in  the 
old-fashioned  hedges,  cut  and  trimmed  with  mathematical 
precision,  which  surrounded  the  glebe,  as  well  as  in  the  heavy 
architecture  and  dingy  bricks  of  the  reverend  recluse's  habita- 
tion. To  make  amends  for  this,  there  was  also  something 
peculiarly  still  and  placid  about  the  appearance  of  the  house, 
which  must  have  suited  well  the  tastes  and  habits  of  the  owner. 
A  small,  formal  lawn  was  adorned  with  a  square  fish-pond, 
bricked  round,  and  covered  with  the  green  weepings  of  four 
willows,  which  drooped  over  it  from  their  station  at  each 
corner.  At  the  opposite  side  of  this  Pierian  reservoir  was  a 
hermitage,  or  arbor  of  laurels,  shaped  in  the  stiff  rusticity  of 
the  Dutch  school,  in  the  prevalence  of  which  it  was  probably 
planted ;  behind  this  arbor  the  ground,  after  a  slight  railing, 
terminated  in  an  orchard. 

The  sound  I  elicited  from  the  gate-bell  seemed  to  ring 
through  that  retired  place  with  singular  shrillness  ;  and  I  ob- 
served at  the  opposite  window  all  that  bustle  of  drawing  curtains, 
peeping  faces,  and  hasty  retreats,  which  denote  female  anxiety 
and  perplexity  at  the  unexpected  approach  of  a  stranger. 

After  some  time  the  parson's  single  servant,  a  middle-aged, 
slovenly  man,  in  a  loose  frock,  and  gray  kerseymere  nonde- 
scripts, opened  the  gate,  and  informed  me  that  his  master  was 
at  home.  With  a  few  earnest  admonitions  to  my  admitter — 
who  was,  like  the  domestics  of  many  richer  men,  both  groom 
and  valet — respecting  the  safety  of  my  borrowed  horse,  I  en- 
tered the  house  :  the  servant  did  not  think  it  necessary  to 
inquire  my  name,  but  threw  open  the  door  of  the  study,  with 
the  brief  introduction  of,  "  A  gentleman,  sir." 

Clutterbuck  was  standing,  with  his  back  towards  me,  upon  a 
pair  of  library  steps,  turning  over  some  dusky  volumes  ;  and 
below  stood  a  pale,  cadaverous  youth,  with  a  set  and  serious 
countenance,  that  bore  no  small  likeness  to  Clutterbuck  himself. 

"  Mon  Dieu"  thought  I,  "  he  cannot  have  made  such  good 
use  of  his  matrimonial  state  as  to  have  raised  this  lanky  im- 
pression of  himself  in  the  space  of  seven  months  ! "  The  good 
man  turned  round,  and  almost  fell  off  the  steps  with  the 
nervous  shock  of  beholding  me  so  near  him  ;  he  descended 
frith  precipitation,  and  shook  me  so  warmly  and  tightly  by  the 
hand,  that  he  brought  tears  into  my  eyes,  as  well  as  his  own. 

"Gently,  my  good  friend,"  said  I ;  "parce, precor,  or  you  will 
force  me  to  say,  ' ibimus  una  ambo,  flentcs  valido  connexi  fge- 
Ckre."' 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         24$ 

Clutterbuck's  eyes  watered  still  more  when  he  heard  the 
grateful  sounds  of  what  to  him  was  the  mother  tongue.  He 
surveyed  me  from  head  to  foot  with  an  air  of  benign  and 
fatherly  complacency,  and  dragging  forth  from  its  sullen  rest 
a  large  arm-chair,  on  whose  cushions  of  rusty  horsehair  sat  an 
eternal  cloud  of  classic  dust,  too  sacred  to  be  disturbed,  he 
plumped  me  down  upon  it,  before  I  was  aware  of  the  cruel 
hospitality. 

"Oh!  my  nether  garments,"  thought  I.  "  Quant  us  sudor 
inent  Be  !oso>  to  restore  you  to  your  pristine  purity  !  " 

"But  whence  come  you?"  said  my  host,  who  cherished 
rather  a  formal  and  antiquated  method  of  speech. 

"From  the  Pythian  games,"  said  I;  "the  campus  hight 
Newmarket.  Do  I  see  right,  or  is  not  yon  insignis  juvetiis  mar- 
vellously like  you  ?  Of  a  surety  he  rivals  the  Titans,  if  he  is 
only  a  seven  months'  child  !" 

"  Now,  truly,  my  worthy  friend,"  answered  Clutterbuck, 
"  you  indulge  in  jesting  !  The  boy  is  my  nephew — a  goodly 
child,  and  a  painstaking.  I  hope  he  will  thrive  at  our  gentle 
mother.  He  goes  to  Trinity  next  October.  Benjamin  Jere- 
miah, my  lad,  this  is  my  worthy  friend  and  benefactor,  of 
whom  I  have  often  spoken  ;  go,  and  order  him  of  our  best — 
he  will  partake  of  our  repast  !  " 

"  No,  really,"  I  began ;  but  Clutterbuck  gently  placed  the 
hand,  whose  strength  of  affection  I  had  already  so  forcibly  ex- 
perienced, upon  my  mouth.  "  Pardon  me,  my  friend,"  said  he. 
"No  stranger  should  depart  till  he  had  broken  bread  with  us  ; 
how  much  more  then  a  friend  !  Go,  Benjamin  Jeremiah,  and 
tell  your  aunt  that  Mr.  Pelham  will  dine  with  us  ;  and  order, 
furthermore,  that  the  barrel  of  oysters  sent  unto  us  as  a  present 
by  my  worthy  friend  Dr.  Swallovv'em,  be  dressed  in  the  fashion 
that  seemeth  best ;  they  are  a  classic  dainty,  and  we  shall  think 
of  our  great  masters  the  ancients  whilst  we  devour  them. 
And — stop,  Benjamin  Jeremiah,  see  that  we  have  the  wine  with 
the  black  seal ;  and — now — go,  Benjamin  Jeremiah  !  " 

"  Well,  my  old  friend,"  said  I,  when  the  door  closed  upon 
the  sallow  and  smileless  nephew,  "how  do  you  love  the  connu- 
bial yoke  ?  Do  you  give  the  same  advice  as  Socrates  ?  I  hope, 
at  least,  it  is  not  from  the  same  experience." 

"  Hem  !"  answered  the  grave  Christopher,  in  a  tone  that 
struck  me  as  somewhat  nervous  and  uneasy,  "  you  are  become 
quite  a  humorist  since  we  parted.  I  suppose  you  have  been 
warming  your  wit  by  the  lambent  fires  of  Horace  and  Aris- 
tophanes." 


646  PELHAM  J 

"  No,"  said  I,  "  the  living  allow  those  whose  toilsome  lot  it 
is  to  mix  constantly  with  them  but  little  time  to  study  the 
monuments  of  the  dead.  But,  in  sober  earnest,  are  you  as 
happy  as  I  wish  you  ?  " 

Clutterbuck  looked  down  for  a  moment,  and  then,  turning 
towards  the  table,  laid  one  hand  upon  a  manuscript,  and  point- 
ed with  the  other  to  his  books.  "  With  this  society,"  said  he, 
"  how  can  I  be  otherwise  ?" 

I  gave  him  no  reply,  but  put  my  hand  upon  his  manuscript. 
He  made  a  modest  and  coy  effort  to  detain  it,  but  I  knew  that 
writers  were  like  women,  and,  making  use  of  no  displeasing 
force,  I  possessed  myself  of  the  paper. 

It  was  a  treatise  on  the  Greek  participle.  My  heart  sickened 
within  me  ;  but,  as  I  caught  the  eager  glance  of  the  poor  au- 
thor, I  brightened  up  my  countenance  into  an  expression  of 
pleasure,  and  appeared  to  read  and  comment  upon  the  difficiles 
nuga  with  an  interest  commensurate  to  his  own.  Meanwhile 
the  youth  returned.  He  had  much  of  that  delicacy  of  senti- 
ment which  always  accompanies  mental  cultivation,  of  what- 
ever sort  it  may  be.  He  went,  with  a  scarlet  blush  over  his 
thin  face,  to  his  uncle,  and  whispered  something  in  his  ear, 
which,  from  the  angry  embarrassment  it  appeared  to  occasion, 
1  was  at  no  loss  to  divine. 

"  Come,"  said  I,  "we  are  too  long  acquainted  for  ceremony. 
Your  placens  uxor,  like  all  ladies  in  the  same  predicament, 
thinks  your  invitation  a  little  unadvised  ;  and  in  real  earnest, 
I  have  so  long  a  ride  to  perform,  that  I  would  rather  eat  your 
oysters  another  day." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Clutterbuck,  with  greater  eagerness  than  his 
even  temperament  was  often  hurried  into  betraying;  "no,  I 
will  go  and  reason  with  her  myself.  '  Wives,  obey  your  hus- 
bands,' saith  the  preacher  !  "  And  the  quondam  senior  wran- 
gler almost  upset  his  chair  in  the  perturbation  with  which  he 
arose  from  it. 

I  laid  my  hand  upon  him.  "  Let  me  go  myself,"  said  I, 
"  since  you  will  have  me  dine  with  you.  'The  sex  is  ever  to  a 
stranger  kind,'  and  I  shall  probably  be  more  persuasive  than 
you,  in  despite  of  your  legitimate  authority." 

So  saying,  I  left  the  room,  with  a  curiosity  more  painful  than 
pleasing,  to  see  the  collegian's  wife.  I  arrested  the  man  ser- 
vant, and  ordered  him  to  usher  and  announce  me. 

I  was  led  instanter  into  the  apartment  where  I  had  discovered 
all  the  signs  of  female  inquisitiveness,  which  I  have  before  de- 
tailed. There  I  discovered  a  small  woman,  in  a  robe  equally 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          247 

slatternly  and  fine,  with  a  sharp  pointed  nose,  small,  cold,  gray 
eyes,  and  a  complexion  high  towards  the  cheek-bones,  but 
waxing  of  a  light  green  before  it  reached  the  wide  and  queru- 
lous mouth,  which,  well  I  ween,  seldom  opened  to  smile  upon 
the  unfortunate  possessor  of  her  charms.  She,  like  the  Rev. 
Christopher,  was  not  without  her  companions  ;  a  tall  meagre 
woman,  of  advanced  age,  and  a  girl,  some  years  younger 
than  herself,  were  introduced  to  me  as  her  mother  and 
sister. 

My  entree  occasioned  no  little  confusion,  but  I  knew  well  how 
to  remedy  that.  I  held  out  my  hand  so  cordially  to  the  wife 
that  I  enticed,  though  with  evident  reluctance,  two  bony 
fingers  into  my  own,  which  I  did  not  dismiss  without  a  most 
mollifying  and  affectionate  squeeze ;  and  drawing  my  chair 
close  towards  her,  began  conversing  as  familiarly  as  if  I  had 
known  the  whole  triad  for  years.  I  declared  my  joy  at  seeing 
my  old  friend  so  happily  settled  ;  commented  on  the  improve- 
ment of  his  looks  ;  ventured  a  sly  joke  at  the  good  effects  of 
matrimony  ;  praised  a  cat  couchant,  worked  in  worsted  by  the 
venerable  hand  of  the  eldest  matron  ;  offered  to  procure  her  a 
real  cat  of  the  true  Persian  breed,  black  ears  four  inches  long, 
with  a  tail  like  a  squirrel's  ;  and  then  slid,  all  at  once,  into  the 
unauthorized  invitation  of  the  good  man  of  the  house. 

"  Clutterbuck,"  said  I,  "  has  asked  me  very  warmly  to  stay 
dinner ;  but,  before  I  accepted  his  offer,  I  insisted  upon 
coming  to  see  how  far  it  was  confirmed  by  you.  Gentlemen, 
you  are  aware,  my  dear  madam,  know  nothing  of  these 
matters,  and  I  never  accept  a  married  man's  invitation  till  it  has 
the  sanction  of  his  lady ;  I  have  an  example  of  that  at  home. 
My  mother  (Lady  Frances)  is  the  best-tempered  woman  in  the 
world  :  but  my  father  could  no  more  take  the  liberty  (for  I 
may  truly  call  it  such)  to  ask  even  his  oldest  friend  to  dinner, 
without  consulting  the  mistress  of  the  house,  than  he  could 
think  of  flying.  No  one  (says  my  mother,  and  she  says  what 
is  very  true)  can  tell  about  the  household  affairs  but  those 
who  have  the  management  of  them  ;  and  in  pursuance  of  this 
aphorism,  I  dare  not  accept  any  invitation  in  this  house  except 
from  its  mistress." 

"Really,"  said  Mrs.  Clutterbuck,  coloring  with  mingled 
embarrassment  and  gratification,  "you  are  very  considerate 
and  polite,  Mr.  Pelham  ;  I  only  wish  Mr.  Clutterbuck  paid 
half  your  attention  to  these  things  ;  nobody  can  tell  the  trouble 
and  inconvenience  he  puts  me  to.  If  I  had  known,  a  little 
time  before,  that  you  were  coming — but  now  I  fear  we  have 


248  PELHAM  ; 

nothing  in  the  house  ;  but  if  you  can  partake  of  our  fare,  such 
as  it  is,  Mr.  Pel  ham — " 

"Your  kindness  enchants  me,"  I  exclaimed,  "and  I  no 
longer  scruple  to  confess  the  pleasure  I  have  in  accepting  my 
old  friend's  offer." 

This  affair  being  settled,  I  continued  to  converse  for  some 
minutes  with  as  much  vivacity  as  I  could  summon  to  my  aid, 
and  when  I  went  once  more  to  the  library  it  was  with  the  com- 
fortable impression  of  having  left  those  as  friends  whom  I  had 
visited  as  foes. 

The  dinner  hour  was  four,  and,  till  it  came,  Clutterbuck  and 
I  amused  ourselves  "in  commune  wise  and  sage."  There  was 
something  high  in  the  sentiments  and  generous  in  the  feelings 
of  this  man,  which  made  me  the  more  regret  the  bias  of  mind 
which  rendered  them  so  unavailing.  At  college  he  had  never 
(tllis  dissiinilis  in  nostro  tempo  re  natis  /)  cringed  to  the  possessors 
of  clerical  power.  In  the  duties  of  his  station  as  dean  of  the 
college  he  was  equally  strict  to  the  black  cap  and  the  lordly 
hat.  Nay,  when  one  of  his  private  pupils,  whose  father  was 
possessed  of  more  Church  preferment  than  any  nobleman  in 
the  peerage,  disobeyed  his  repeated  summons,  and  constantly 
neglected  to  attend  his  instructions,  he  sent  for  him,  resigned 
his  tuition,  and  refused  any  longer  to  accept  a  salary  which 
the  negligence  of  his  pupil  would  not  allow  him  to  requite. 
In  his  clerical  tenets  he  was  high  :  in  his  judgment  of  others 
he  was  mild.  His  knowledge  of  the  liberty  of  Greece  was  not 
drawn  from  the  ignorant  historian  of  her  Republics  ;*  nor  did 
he  find  in  the  contemplative  mildness  and  gentle  philosophy  of 
the  ancients,  nothing  but  a  sanction  for  modern  bigotry  and 
existing  abuses. 

It  was  a  remarkable  trait  in  his  conversation  that  though  he 
indulged  in  many  references  to  the  old  authors,  and  allusions 
to  classic  customs,  he  never  deviated  into  the  innumerable  quo- 
tations with  which  his  memory  was  stored.  No  words,  in  spite 
of  all  the  quaintness  and  antiquity  of  his  dialect,  purely  Latin 
or  Greek,  ever  escaped  his  lips,  except  in  our  engagements  at 
capping  verses,  or  when  he  was  allured  into  accepting  a  chal- 
lenge of  learning  from  some  of  its  pretenders ;  then,  indeed, 
he  could  pour  forth  such  a  torrent  of  authorities  as  effectually 
silenced  his  opponent  ;  but  these  contests  were  rarely  entered 
into,  and  these  triumphs  moderately  indulged.  Yet  he  loved 

*  It  is  really  a  disgrace  to  our  University,  that  any  of  its  colleges  should  accept  as  a 
reference,  or  even  tolerate  as  an  author,  the  presumptuous  bigot  who  has  bequeathed  to  us, 
in  his  History  of  Greece,  the  masterpiece  of  a  declaimer  without  energy,  and  of  a  pedant 
without  learning. 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         249 

the  use  of  quotations  in  others,  and  I  knew  the  greatest  pleas* 
ure  I  could  give  him  was  in  the  frequent  use  of  them.  Per- 
haps he  thought  it  would  seem  like  an  empty  parade  of  learn- 
ing in  one  who  so  confessedly  possessed  it,  to  deal  in  the 
strange  words  of  another  tongue,  and  consequently  rejected 
them,  while,  with  an  innocent  inconsistency,  characteristic  of  the 
man,  it  never  occurred  to  him  that  there  was  anything,  either  in 
the  quaintness  of  his  dialect  or  the  occupations  of  his  leisure, 
which  might  subject  him  to  the  same  imputation  of  pedantry. 

And  yet,  at  times,  when  he  warmed  in  his  subject,  there  was 
a  tone  in  his  language  as  well  as  sentiment,  which  might  not 
be  improperly  termed  eloquent  ;  and  the  real  modesty  and 
quiet  enthusiasm  of  his  nature  took  away  from  the  impression 
he  made  the  feeling  of  pomposity  and  affectation  with  which 
otherwise  he  might  have  inspired  you. 

"You  have  a  calm  and  quiet  habitation  here,"  said  I ;  "the 
very  rooks  seem  to  have  something  lulling  in  that  venerable 
caw  which  it  always  does  me  such  good  to  hear." 

"Yes,"  answered  Clutterbuck,  "  I  own  that  there  is  much 
that  is  grateful  to  the  temper  of  my  mind  in  this  retired  spot. 
I  fancy  that  I  can  the  better  give  myself  up  to  the  contempla- 
tion which  makes,  as  it  were,  my  intellectual  element  and  food. 
And  yet  I  dare  say  that  in  this  (as  in  all  other  things)  I  do 
strangely  err ;  for  I  remember  that  during  my  only  sojourn  in 
London,  I  was  wont  to  feel  the  sound  of  wheels  and  of  the 
throng  of  steps  shake  the  windows  of  my  lodging  in  the  Strand, 
as  if  it  were  but  a  warning  to  recall  my  mind  more  closely  to 
its  studies  :  of  a  verity  that  noisy  evidence  of  man's  labor  re- 
minded me  how  little  the  great  interests  of  this  rolling  world 
were  to  me,  and  the  feeling  of  solitude  amongst  the  crowds 
without  made  me  cling  more  fondly  to  the  company  I  found 
within.  For  it  seems  that  the  mind  is  ever  addicted  to  con- 
traries, and  that  when  it  be  transplanted  into  a  soil  where  all 
its  neighbors  do  produce  a  certain  fruit,  it  doth,  from  a  strange 
perversity,  bring  forth  one  of  a  different  sort.  You  would 
little  believe,  my  honored  friend,  that  in  this  lonely  seclusion  I 
cannot  at  all  times  prohibit  my  thoughts  from  wandering  to 
that  gay  world  of  London,  which,  during  my  tarry  therein, 
occupied  them  in  so  partial  a  degree.  You  smile,  my  friend, 
nevertheless  it  is  true  ;  and  when  you  reflect  that  I  dwelt  in 
the  western  part  of  the  metropolis,  near  unto  the  noble  man- 
sion of  Somerset  House,  and  consequently  in  the  very  centre 
of  what  the  idle  call  Fashion,  you  will  not  be  so  surprised  at 
the  occasional  migration  of  my  thoughts." 


250  PELHAM  J 

Here  the  worthy  Clutterbuck  paused  and  sighed  slightly. 
"Do  you  farm,  or  cultivate  your  garden  ?"  said  I ;  "  they  are 
no  ignoble  nor  unclassical  employments." 

"Unhappily,"  answered  Clutterbuck,  "I  am  inclined  to 
neither  ;  my  chest  pains  me  with  a  sharp  and  piercing  pang 
when  I  attempt  to  stoop,  and  my  respiration  is  short  and  asth- 
matic ;  and,  in  truth,  I  seldom  love  to  stir  from  my  books  and 
papers.  I  go  with  Pliny  to  his  garden,  and  with  Virgil  to  his 
farm  ;  those  mental  excursions  are  the  sole  ones  I  indulge  in  ; 
and  when  I  think  of  my  appetite  for  application,  and  my  love 
of  idleness,  I  am  tempted  to  wax  proud  of  the  propensities 
which  reverse  the  censure  of  Tacitus  on  our  German  ances- 
tors, and  incline  so  fondly  to  quiet,  while  they  turn  so  rest- 
lessly from  sloth." 

Here  the  speaker  was  interrupted  by  a  long,  low,  dry  cough, 
which  penetrated  me  to  the  heart.  "  Alas  !  "  thought  I,  as  I 
heard  it,  and  looked  upon  my  poor  friend's  hectic  and  hollow 
cheek,  "  it  is  not  only  his  mind  that  will  be  the  victim  to  the 
fatality  of  his  studies." 

It  was  some  moments  before.I  renewed  the  conversation,  and 
I  had  scarcely  done  so  before  I  was  interrupted  by  the  en- 
trance of  Benjamin  Jeremiah  with  a  message  from  his  aunt 
that  dinner  would  be  ready  in  a  few  minutes.  Another  long 
whisper  to  Christopher  succeeded.  The  ci-devant  fellow  of 
Trinity  looked  down  at  his  garments  with  a  perplexed  air.  I 
saw  at  once  that  he  had  received  a  hint  on  the  propriety  of  a 
change  of  raiment.  To  give  him  due  leisure  for  this,  I  asked 
the  youth  to  show  me  a  room  in  which  I  might  perform  the 
usual  ablutions  previous  to  dinner,  and  followed  him  upstairs 
to  a  comfortless  sort  of  dressing-room,  without  a  fire-place, 
where  I  found  a  yellow-ware  jug  and  basin,  and  a  towel  of  so 
coarse  a  huckaback  that  I  did  not  dare  adventure  its  rough 
texture  next  my  complexion — my  skin  is  not  made  for  such 
rude  fellowship.  While  I  was  tenderly  and  daintily  anoint- 
ing my  hands  with  some  hard  water,  of  no  Blandusian  spring, 
and  that  vile  composition  entitled  Windsor  soap,  I  heard  the 
difficult  breathing  of  poor  Clutterbuck  on  the  stairs,  and  soon 
after  he  entered  the  adjacent  room.  Two  minutes  more  and 
his  servant  joined  him,  for  I  heard  the  rough  voice  of  the  do- 
mestic say,  "  There  is  no  more  of  the  wine  with  the  black  seal 
left,  sir  !  " 

"No  more,  good  Dixon  ?  You  mistake  grievously.  I  had 
two  dozen  not  a  week  since  !  " 

"  Don't  know,  I'm  sure,  sir  !  "  answered  Dixon,  with  a  care- 


£R,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          2$! 

less  and  half-impertinent  accent ;  "but  there  are  great  things, 
like  alligators,  in  the  cellar,  which  break  all  the  bottles  !  " 

"  Alligators  in  my  cellar  !  "said  the  astonished  Clutterbuck. 

"  Yes,  sir — at  least  a  venomous  sort  of  reptile  like  them,  which 
the  people  about  here  call  efts!" 

"  What  ! "  said  Clutterbuck  innocently,  and  evidently  not 
seeing  the  irony  of  his  own  question  ;  "What !  Have  the  efts 
broken  two  dozen  bottles  in  a  week  ?  Of  an  exceeding  surety 
it  is  strange  that  a  little  creature  of  the  lizard  species  should 
be  so  destructive — perchance  they  have  an  antipathy  to  the 
vinous  smell  ;  I  will  confer  with  my  learned  friend,  Dr.  Dis- 
sectall,  touching  their  strength  and  habits.  Bring  up  some  of 
the  port,  then,  good  Dixon." 

"  Yes,  sir.  All  the  corn  is  out  ;  I  had  none  for  the  gentle- 
man's horse." 

"  Why,  Dixon,  my  memory  fails  me  strangely,  or  I  paid  you 
the  sum  of  four  pounds  odd  shillings  for  corn  on  Friday  last." 

"Yes,  sir  ;  but  your  cow  and  the  chickens  eat  so  much; 
and  then  blind  Dobbin  has  four  feeds  a  day,  and  Farmer 
Johnson  always  puts  his  horse  in  our  stable,  and  Mrs.  Clutter- 
buck  and  the  ladies  fed  the  jackass  the  other  day  in  the  hired 
donkey-chaise  ;  besides,  the  rats  and  mice  are  always  at  it." 

"  It  is  a  marvel  unto  me,"  answered  Clutterbuck,"  how  detri- 
mental the  vermin  race  are ;  they  seem  to  have  noted  my  poor 
possessions  as  their  especial  prey ;  remind  me  that  I  write  to 
Dr.  Dissectall  to-morrow,  good  Dixon." 

"Yes,  sir;  and  now  I  think  of  it — "  But  here  Mr.  Dixon 
was  cut  short  in  his  items  by  the  entrance  of  a  third  person, 
who  proved  to  be  Mrs.  Clutterbuck. 

"  VVhat,  not  dressed  yet,  Mr.  Clutterbuck ;  what  a  dawdler 
you  are !  And  do  look — was  ever  woman  so  used  ?  You 
have  wiped  your  razor  upon  my  nightcap — you  dirty,  slov- 
enly— " 

"  I  crave  you  many  pardons  ;  I  own  my  error  !  "  said  Clut- 
terbuck, in  a  nervous  tone  of  interruption. 

"Error,  indeed  !"  cried  Mrs.  Clutterbuck,  in  a  sharp,  over- 
stretched, querulous  falsetto,  suited  to  the  occasion  :  "but  this 
is  always  the  case  ;  I  am  sure,  my  poor  temper  is  tried  to  the 
utmost — and  Lord  help  thee,  idiot !  you  have  thrust  those 
spindle  legs  of  yours  into  your  coat-sleeves  instead  of  your 
breeches  !  " 

"Of  a  truth,  good  wife,  your  eyes  are  more  discerning  than 
mine  ;  and  my  legs,  which  are,  as  you  say,  somewhat  thin,  have 
indued  themselves  in  what  appertaineth  not  unto  them ;  but 


252  PELHAM  J 

for  all  that,  Dorothea,  I  am  not  deserving  of  the  epithet  of  idiot, 
with  which  you  have  been  pleased  to  favor  me;  although  my  hum- 
ble faculties  are,  indeed,  of  no  eminent  or  surpassing  order — " 

"  Pooh  !  pooh  !  Mr.  Clutterbuck,  I  am  sure  I  don't  know 
what  else  you  are,  muddling  your  head  with  all  those  good- 
for-nothing  books.  And  now  do  tell  me,  how  you  could  think 
of  asking  Mr.  Pelham  to  dinner,  when  you  knew  we  had  noth- 
ing in  the  world  but  hashed  mutton  and  an  apple  pudding  ? 
Is  that  the  way,  sir,  you  disgrace  your  wife,  after  her  conde- 
scension in  marrying  you  ?  " 

"  Really,"  answered  the  patient  Clutterbuck,  "  I  was  forget- 
ful of  those  matters  ;  but  my  friend  cares  as  little  as  myself 
about  the  grosser  tastes  of  the  table  ;  and  the  feast  of  intellect- 
ual converse  is  all  that  he  desires  in  his  brief  sojourn  beneath 
our  roof." 

"  Feast  of  fiddlesticks,  Mr.  Clusterbuck  !  Did  ever  man 
talk  such  nonsense?" 

"  Besides,"  rejoined  the  master-  of  the  house,  unheeding  this 
interruption,  "  we  have  a  luxury  even  of  the  palate,  than  which 
there  are  none  more  delicate,  and  unto  which  he,  as  well  as 
myself,  is,  I  know,  somewhat  unphilosophically  given  :  I  speak 
of  the  oysters  sent  here  by  our  good  friend,  Dr.  Swallow'em." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Mr.  Clutterbuck  ?  My  poor  mother 
and  I  had  those  oysters  last  night  for  our  supper.  I  am  sure 
she,  and  my  sister,  are  almost  starved  ;  but  you  are  always 
wanting  to  be  pampered  up  above  us  all." 

"Nay,  nay,"  answered  Clutterbuck,  "you  know  you  accuse 
me  wrongfully,  Dorothea  ;  but  now  I  think  of  it,  would  it  not 
be  better  to  modulate  the  tone  of  our  conversation,  seeing  that 
our  guest  (a  circumstance  which  until  now  quite  escaped  my 
recollection)  was  shown  into  the  next  room  for  the  purpose  of 
washing  his  hands,  the  which,  from  their  notable  cleanliness, 
seemed  to  me  wholly  unnecessary.  I  would  not  have  him  over' 
hear  you,  Dorothea,  lest  his  kind  heart  should  imagine  me  less 
happy  than — than — it  wishes  me  !  " 

"  Good  God,  Mr.  Clutterbuck  !  "  were  the  only  words  I 
heard  farther  :  and  with  tears  in  my  eyes,  and  a  suffocating 
feeling  in  my  throat,  for  the  matrimonial  situation  of  my  unfor- 
tunate friend,  I  descended  into  the  drawing-room.  The  only 
one  yet  there  was  the  pale  nephew  :  he  was  bending  painfully 
over  a  book ;  I  took  it  from  him  ;  it  was  "  Bentley  upon 
Phalaris."  I  could  scarcely  refrain  from  throwing  it  into  the 
fire  :  "  Another  victim  J  "  thought  I.  Oh,  the  curse  of  an  Eng- 
lish education  ' 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          253 

By  and  by  down  came  the  mother  and  the  sister,  then  Clutter- 
buck,  and  lastly,  bedizened  out  with  gewgaws  and  trumpery, 
the  wife.  Born  and  nurtured  as  I  was  in  the  art  of  the  vollo 
sciolto,pensieri  stretti,  *  I  had  seldom  found  a  more  arduous  task 
of  dissimulation  than  that  which  I  experienced  now.  How- 
ever, the  hope  to  benefit  my  friend's  situation  assisted  me : 
the  best  way,  I  thought,  of  obtaining  him  more  respect  from 
his  wife,  will  be  by  showing  her  the  respect  he  meets  with 
from  others  ;  accordingly,  I  sat  down  by  her,  and  having  first 
conciliated  her  attention  by  some  of  that  coin  termed  compli- 
ments, in  which  there  is  no  counterfeit  that  does  not  have  the 
universal  effect  of  real,  I  spoke  with  the  most  profound  venera- 
tion of  the 'talents  and  learning  of  Clutterbuck  ;  I  dilated  upon 
the  high  reputation  he  enjoyed  ;  upon  the  general  esteem  in 
which  he  was  held  ;  upon  the  kindness  of  his  heart,  the  sin- 
cerity of  his  modesty,  the  integrity  of  his  honor — in  short, 
whatever  I  thought  likely  to  affect  her  ;  most  of  all,  I  insisted 
upon  the  high  panegyrics  bestowed  upon  him  by  Lord  This, 
and  the  Earl  That,  and  wound  up  with  adding  that  I  was 
certain  he  would  die  a  bishop.  My  eloquence  had  its  effect ; 
all  dinner  time  Mrs.  Clutterbuck  treated  her  husband  with  even 
striking  consideration  :  my  words  seemed  to  have  gifted  her 
with  a  new  light,  and  to  have  wrought  a  thorough  transforma- 
tion in  her  view  of  her  lord  and  master's  character.  Who 
knows  not  the  truth,  that  we  have  dim  and  short-sighted  eyes 
to  estimate  the  nature  of  our  own  kin,  and  that  we  borrow  the 
spectacles  which  alone  enable  us  to  discern  their  merits  or 
their  failings  from  the  opinion  of  strangers  !  It  may  be  readily 
supposed  that  the  dinner  did  not  pass  without  its  share  of 
the  ludicrous  ;  that  the  waiter  and  the  dishes,  the  family  and 
the  host,  would  have  afforded  ample  materials  no  less  for  the 
student  of  nature  in  Hogarth,  than  of  caricature  in  Bunbury  ; 
but  I  was  too  seriously  occupied  in  pursuing  my  object,  and 
marking  its  success,  to  have  time  even  for  a  smile.  Ah,  if 
ever  you  would  allure  your  son  to  diplomacy,  show  him  how 
subservient  he  may  make  it  to  benevolence  ! 

When  the  women  had  retired  we  drew  our  chairs  near  to 
each  other,  and,  laying  down  my  watch  on  the  table,  as  I  looked 
out  upon  the  declining  day,  I  said,  "  Let  us  make  the  best  of 
our  time  ;  I  can  only  linger  here  one  half-hour  longer." 

"  And  how,  my  friend,"  said  Clutterbuck,  "  shall  we  learn 
the  method  of  making  the  best  use  of  time?  There,  whether  it 
be  in  the  larger  segments,  or  the  petty  subdivisions  of  our  life, 

*  The  open  countenance  and  closed  thoughts. 


254  PELHAM  J 

rests  the  great  enigma  of  our  being.  Who  is  there  that  has 
never  exclaimed  (pardon  my  pedantry,  I  am  for  once  driven 
into  Greek)  Eureka!  to  this  most  difficult  of  the  sciences?" 

"Come,"  said  I,  "it  is  not  for  you,  the  favored  scholar — the 
honored  academician — whose  hours  are  never  idly  employed, 
to  ask  this  question  !  " 

"Your  friendship  makes  too  flattering  the  acumen  of  your 
judgment,"  answered  the  modest  Clutterbuck.  "  It  has  indeed 
been  my  lot  to  cultivate  the  fields  of  truth,  as  transmitted  unto 
our  hands  by  the  wise  men  of  old  ;  and  I  have  much  to  be 
thankful  for,  that  I  have,  in  the  employ,  been  neither  curtailed 
in  my  leisure,  nor  abased  in  my  independence — the  two  great 
goods  of  a  calm  and  meditative  mind  ;  yet  are  there  moments 
in  which  I  am  led  to  doubt  of  the  wisdom  of  my  pursuits  ;  and 
when,  with  a  feverish  and  shaking  hand,  I  put  aside  the  books 
which  have  detained  me  from  my  rest  till  the  morning  hour, 
and  repair  to  a  couch  often  baffled  of  slumber  by  the  pains 
and  discomforts  of  this  worn  and  feeble  frame,  I  almost  wish 
I  could  purchase  the  rude  health  of  the  peasant  by  the  ex- 
change of  an  idle  and  imperfect  learning  for  the  ignorance, 
content  with  the  narrow  world  it  possesses,  because  uncon- 
scious of  the  limitless  creation  beyond.  Yet,  my  dear  and 
esteemed  friend,  there  is  a  dignified  and  tranquillizing  philo- 
sophy in  the  writings  of  the  ancients  which  ought  to  teach  me 
a  better  condition  of  mind  ;  and  when  I  have  risen  from  the 
lofty,  albeit  somewhat  melancholy  strain,  which  swells  through 
the  essays  of  the  graceful  and  tender  Cicero,  I  have  indeed 
felt  a  momentary  satisfaction  at  my  studies,  and  an  elation 
even  at  the  petty  success  with  which  I  have  cherished  them. 
But  these  are  brief  and  fleeting  moments,  and  deserve  chas- 
tisement for  their  pride.  There  is  one  thing,  my  Pelham, 
which  has  grieved  me  bitterly  of  late,  and  that  is,  that  in  the 
earnest  attention  which  it  is  the — perhaps  fastidious — custom 
of  our  University  to  pay  to  the  minutiae  of  classic  lore,  I  do 
now  oftentimes  lose  the  spirit  and  beauty  of  the  general  bear- 
ing ;  nay,  I  derive  a  far  greater  pleasure  from  the  ingenious 
amendment  of  a  perverted  text,  than  from  all  the  turn  and 
thought  of  the  sense  itself  :  while  I  am  straightening  a  crooked 
nail  in  the  wine-cask,  I  suffer  the  wine  to  evaporate  ;  but  to 
this  I  am  somewhat  reconciled,  when  I  reflect  that  it  was  also 
the  misfortune  of  the  great  Person,  and  the  elaborate  Parr, 
men  with  whom  I  blush  to  find  myself  included  in  the  same 
sentence." 

"  My  friend,"  said  I,  "  I  wish  neither  to  wound  your  modesty 


OR,  ADVENTURES   OF    A    GENTLEMAN.  255 

nor  to  impugn  your  pursuits  ;  but  think  you  not  that  it  would 
be  better,  both  for  men  and  for  yourself,  if,  while  you  are  yet 
in  the  vigor  of  your  age  and  reason,  you  occupy  your  ingenuity 
and  application  in  some  more  useful  and  lofty  work,  than  that 
which  you  suffered  me  to  glance  at  in  your  library ;  and, 
moreover,  as  the  great  object  of  him  who  would  perfect  his 
mind  is  first  to  strengthen  the  faculties  of  his  body,  would  it 
not  be  prudent  in  you  to  lessen  for  a  time  your  devotion  to 
books  ;  to  exercise  yourself  in  the  fresh  air — to  relax  the  bow, 
by  loosing  the  string  ;  to  mix  more  with  the  living  and  impart 
to  men  in  conversation,  as  well  as  in  writing,  whatever  the 
incessant  labor  of  many  years  may  have  hoarded  ?  Come,  if 
not  to  town,  at  least  to  its  vicinity  ;  the  profits  of  your  living, 
if  even  tolerably  managed,  will  enable  you  to  do  so  without  in- 
convenience. Leave  your  books  to  their  shelves,  and  your 
flock  to  their  curate,  and — you  shake  your  head — do  I  dis- 
please you  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  my  kind  and  generous  adviser  ;  but  as  the  twig 
was  set,  the  tree  must  grow.  I  have  not  been  without  that  am- 
bition, which,  however  vain  and  -sinful,  is  the  first  passion  to 
enter  the  wayward  and  tossing  vessel  of  our  soul,  and  the  last 
to  leave  its  stranded  and  shattered  wreck  ;  but  mine  found 
and  attained  its  object  at  an  age  when  in  others  it  is,  as  yet,  a 
vague  and  unsettled  feeling  ;  and  it  feeds  now  rather  upon  the 
recollections  of  what  has  been,  than  ventures  forward  on  a  sea 
of  untried  and  strange  expectation.  As  for  my  studies  !  how 
can  you,  who  have,  and  in  no  moderate  draught,  drunk  of  the  old 
stream  of  Castaly, — how  can  you  ask  me  now  to  change  them  ? 
Are  not  the  ancients  my  food,  my  aliment,  my  solace  in  sor- 
row ;  my  sympathizers,  my  very  benefactors,  in  joy  ?  Take 
them  away  from  me,  and  you  take  away  the  very  winds  which 
purify  and  give  motion  to  the  obscure  and  silent  current  of  my 
life.  Besides,  my  Pelham,  it  cannot  have  escaped  your  obser- 
vation that  there  is  little  in  my  present  state  which  promises  a 
long  increase  of  days  :  the  few  that  remain  to  me  must  glide 
away  like  their  predecessors  ;  and  whatever  be  the  infirmities 
of  my  body,  and  the  little  harassments  which,  I  am  led  to  sus- 
pect, do  occasionally  molest  the  most  fortunate,  who  link  them- 
selves unto  the  unstable  and  fluctuating  part  of  creation  which 
we  term  women,  more  especially  in  an  hymeneal  capacity — 
whatever  these  may  be,  I  have  my  refuge  and  my  comforter  in 
the  golden-souled  and  dreaming  Plato,  and  the  sententious 
wisdom  of  the  less  imaginative  Seneca.  Now,  when  I  am  re- 
minded of  my  approaching  dissolution  by  the  symptoms  which 


2$6  PELHAM  ; 

do  mostly  at  the  midnight  hour  press  themselves  upon  me,  is 
there  a  small  and  inglorious  pleasure  in  the  hope  that  I  may 
meet,  hereafter,  in  those  Islands  of  the  Blest  which  they  dimly 
dreamt  of,  but  which  are  opened  unto  my  vision,  without  a 
cloud,  or  mist,  or  shadow  of  uncertainty  and  doubt,  with  those 
bright  spirits  which  we  do  now  converse  with  so  imperfectly  ; 
that  I  may  catch  from  the  very  lips  of  Homer  the  unclouded 
gorgeousness  of  fiction,  and  from  the  accents  of  Archimedes 
the  unadulterated  calculations  of  truth  !  " 

Clutterbuck  ceased  ;  and  the  glow  of  his  enthusiasm  diffused 
itself  over  his  sunken  eye  and  consumptive  cheek.  The  boy, 
who  had  sat  apart  and  silent  during  our  discourse,  laid  his  head 
upon  the  table  and  sobbed  audibly  ;  and  I  rose,  deeply  affect- 
ed, to  offer  to  one  for  whom  they  were,  indeed,  unavailing,  the 
wishes  and  blessing  of  an  eager,  but  not  hardened,  disciple  of 
the  world.  We  parted  :  on  this  earth  we  can  never  meet  again. 
The  light  has  wasted  itself  away  beneath  the  bushel.  It  will  be 
six  weeks  to-morrow  since  the  meek  and  noble-minded  academ- 
ician breathed  his  last. 


CHAPTER  LXIV. 

"  'Tis  but  a  single  murder." — LILLO'S  Fatal  Curiosity. 

IT  was  in  a  melancholy  and  thoughtful  mood  that  I  rode 
away  from  the  parsonage.  Numerous  and  hearty  were  the 
maledictions  I  bestowed  upon  a  system  of  education  which, 
while  it  was  so  ineffective  with  the  many,  was  so  pernicious  to 
the  few.  Miserable  delusion  (thought  I),  that  encourages  the 
ruin  of  health  and  the  perversion  of  intellect  by  studies  that 
are  as  unprofitable  to  the  world  as  they  are  destructive  to  the 
possessor — that  incapacitate  him  for  public,  and  unfit  him  for 
private,  life  ;  and,  that,  while  they  expose  him  to  the  ridicule  of 
strangers,  render  him  the  victim  of  his  wife,  and  the  prey  of  his 
domestic ! 

Busied  in  such  reflections  I  rode  quickly  on,  till  I  found  my- 
self, once  more,  on  the  heath.  I  looked  anxiously  round  for 
the  conspicuous  equipage  of  Lady  Chester,  but  in  vain  :  the 
ground  was  thin — nearly  all  the  higher  orders  had  retired  :  the 
common  people,  grouped  together,  and  clamoring  noisily,  were 
withdrawing  :  and  the  shrill  voices  of  the  itinerant  hawkers  of 
cards  and  bills  had,  at  length,  subsided  into  silence.  I  rode 
over  the  ground,  in  the  hope  of  finding  some  solitary  straggler 
of  our  party.  Alas  !  there  was  not  one  ;  and  with  much  reluc- 


OR,  ADVENTURES   OF   A    GPNTLEMAtf.  2$7 

tance  at,  and  distaste  to,  my  lonely  retreat,  I  turned  in  a  home- 
ward direction  from  the  course. 

The  evening  had  already  set  in,  but  there  was  a  moon  in  the 
cold  gray  sky  that  I  could  almost  have  thanked,  in  a  sonnet, 
for  a  light  which  I  felt  was  never  more  welcomely  dispensed, 
when  I  thought  of  the  cross-roads  and  dreary  country  I  had  to 
pass  before  I  reached  the  longed-for  haven  of  Chester  Park. 
After  I  had  left  the  direct  road  the  wind,  which  had  before 
been  piercingly  keen,  fell,  and  I  perceived  a  dark  cloud  be- 
hind, which  began  slowly  to  overtake  my  steps.  I  care  little, 
in  general,  for  the  discomfort  of  a  shower  ;  yet,  as  when  we  are 
in  one  misfortune  we  always  exaggerate  the  consequence  of  a 
new  one,  I  looked  upon  my  dark  pursuer  with  a  very  impatient 
and  petulant  frown,  and  set  my  horse  on  a  trot,  much  more 
suitable  to  my  inclination  than  his  own.  Indeed,  he  seemed 
fully  alive  to  the  cornless  state  of  the  parson's  stable,  and 
evinced  his  sense  of  the  circumstance  by  a  very  languid  mode 
of  progression,  and  a  constant  attempt,  whenever  his  pace  abated, 
and  I  suffered  the  rein  to  slumber  upon  his  neck,  to  crop  the  rank 
grass  that  sprang  up  on  either  side  of  our  road.  I  had  pro- 
ceeded about  three  miles  on  my  way,  when  I  heard  the  clatter 
of  hoofs  behind  me.  My  even  pace  soon  suffered  me  to  be 
overtaken  ;  and,  as  the  stranger  checked  his  horse  when  he 
was  nearly  by  my  side,  I  turned  towards  him,  and  beheld  Sir 
John  Tyrrell. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  this  is  really  fortunate  ;  for  I  began  to  fear 
I  should  have  my  ride  this  cold  evening  entirely  to  myself.'" 

"I  imagined  that  you  had  long  reached  Chester  Park  by  this 
time,"  said  I.  "  Did  not  you  leave  the  course  with  our  party  ?  " 

"No,"  answered  Tyrrell;  "I  had  business  at  Newmarket 
with  a  rascally  fellow  of  the  name  of  Dawson.  He  lost  to  me 
rather  a  considerable  wager,  and  asked  me  to  come  to  town 
with  him  after  the  race  in  order  to  pay  me.  As  he  said  he 
lived  on  the  direct  road  to  Chester  Park,  and  would  direct, 
and  even  accompany  me  through  all  the  difficult  part  of  the 
ride,  I  the  less  regretted  not  joining  Chester  and  his  party  ; 
and  you  know,  Pelham,  that  when  pleasure  pulls  one  way,  and 
money  another,  it  is  all  over  with  the  first.  Well,  to  return  to 
my  rascal — would  you  believe,  that  when  we  got  to  New- 
market, he  left  me  at  the  inn,  in  order,  he  said,  to  fetch  the 
money  ;  and  after  having  kept  me  in  a  cold  room,  with  a 
smoky  chimney,  for  more  than  an  hour,  without  making  his 
appearance,  I  sallied  out  into  the  town,  and  found  Mr.  Da\vson 
quietly  seated  in  a  hell  with  that  scoundrel  Thornton,  whom  I 


258  PELHAM; 

did  not  conceive,  till  then,  he  was  acquainted  with.  It  seems 
that  he  was  to  win,  at  hazard,  sufficient  to  pay  his  wager  ! 
You  may  fancy  my  anger,  and  the  consequent  increase  to  it, 
when  he  rose  from  the  table,  approached  me,  expressed  his 
sorrow,  d — d  his  ill  luck,  and  informed  me  that  he  could  not 
pay  me  for  three  months.  You  know  that  I  could  not  ride 
home  with  such  a  fellow — he  might  have  robbed  me  by  the 
way — so  I  returned  to  my  inn,  dined,  ordered  my  horse,  set 
off,  inquired  my  way  of  every  passenger  I  passed,  and  after 
innumerable  misdirections — here  I  am  ! " 

"I  cannot  sympathize  with  you,"  said  I,  "since  I  am  bene- 
fited by  your  misfortunes.  But  do  you  think  it  very  necessary 
to  trot  so  fast  ?  I  fear  my  horse  can  scarcely  keep  up  with 
yours." 

Tyrrell  cast  an  impatient  glance  at  my  panting  steed.  "It 
is  cursed  unlucky  you  should  be  so  badly  mounted,  and  we 
shall  have  a  pelting  shower  presently." 

In  complaisance  to  Tyrrell,  I  endeavored  to  accelerate  my 
steed.  The  roads  were  rough  and  stony  ;  and  I  had  scarcely 
got  the  tired  animal  into  a  sharp  trot,  before — whether  or  no 
by  some  wrench  among  the  deep  ruts  and  flinty  causeway — he 
fell  suddenly  lame.  The  impetuosity  of  Tyrrell  broke  out  in 
oaths,  and  we  both  dismounted  to  examine  the  cause  of  my 
horse's  hurt,  in  the  hope  that  it  might  only  be  the  intrusion  of 
some  pebble  between  the  shoe  and  the  hoof.  While  we  were 
yet  investigating  the  cause  of  our  misfortune,  two  men  on 
horseback  overtook  us.  Tyrrell  looked  up.  "By  Heaven," 
said  he,  in  a  low  tone,  "it's  that  dog  Dawson,  and  his  worthy 
coadjutor,  Tom  Thornton." 

"What's  the  matter,  gentlemen  ?"  cried  the  bluff  voice  of 
the  latter.  "Can  I  be  of  any  assistance?"  and  without  wait- 
ing our  reply,  he  dismounted,  and  came  up  to  us.  He  had  no 
sooner  felt  the  horse's  leg  than  he  assured  us  it  was  a  most 
severe  strain,  and  that  the  utmost  I  could  effect  would  be  to 
walk  the  brute  gently  home. 

As  Tyrrell  broke  out  into  impatient  violence  at  this  speech, 
the  sharper  looked  up  at  him  with  an  expression  of  counte- 
nance I  by  no  means  liked,  but  in  a  very  civil,  and  even 
respectful,  tone,  said,  "If  you  wish,  Sir  John,  to  reach  Chester 
Park  sooner  than  Mr.  Pelham  can  possibly  do,  suppose  you 
ride  on  with  us ;  I  will  put  you  in  the  direct  road  before  I  quit 
you."  (Good  breeding,  thought  I,  to  propose  leaving  me  to 
find  my  own  way  through  this  labyrinth  of  ruts  and  stones !) 
However,  Tyrrell,  who  was  in  a  vile  humor,  refused  the  offer, 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         259 

in  no  very  courteous  manner ;  and  added,  that  he  should  con- 
tinue with  me  as  long  as  he  could,  and  did  not  doubt  that  when 
he  left  me  he  should  be  able  to  find  his  own  way.  Thornton 
pressed  the  invitation  still  closer,  and  even  offered,  sotto  vocc, 
to  send  Dawson  on  before,  should  the  Baronet  object  to  his 
company. 

"Pray,  sir,"  said  Tyrrell,  "leave  me  alone,  and  busy  yourself 
about  your  own  affairs."  After  so  tart  a  reply,  Thornton 
thought  it  useless  to  say  more  ;  he  remounted,  and  with  a  silent 
and  swaggering  nod  of  familiarity,  soon  rode  away  with  his 
companion. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  I,  as  we  were  slowly  proceeding,  "  that 
you  rejected  Thornton's  offer." 

"  Why,  to  say  truth,"  answered  Tyrrell,  "  I  have  so  very  bad 
an  opinion  of  him,  that  I  was  almost  afraid  to  trust  myself  in 
his  company  on  so  dreary  a  road.  I  have  nearly  (and  he  knows 
it)  to  the  amount  of  two  thousand  pounds  about  me  ;  for  I  was 
very  fortunate  in  my  betting-book  to-day." 

"  I  know  nothing  about  racing  regulations,"  said  I  ;  "  but  I 
thought  one  never  paid  sums  of  that  amount  upon  the  ground  ?" 

"Ah  !"  answered  Tyrrell,  "but  I  won  this  sum,  which  is 
eighteen  hundred  pounds,  of  a  country  squire  from  Norfolk, 
who  said  he  did  not  know  when  he  should  see  me  again,  and 
insisted  on  paying  me  on  the  spot :  'faith  I  was  not  nice  in  the 
matter.  Thornton  was  standing  by  at  the  time,  and  I  did  not 
half  like  the  turn  of  his  eye  when  lie  saw  me  put  it  up.  Do 
you  know,  too,"  continued  Tyrrell,  after  a  pause,  "  that  I  had 
a  d — d  fellow  dodging  me  all  day,  and  yesterday  too  ;  where- 
ever  I  go,  I  am  sure  to  see  him.  He  seems  constantly,  though 
distantly,  to  follow  me  ;  and  what  is  worse,  he  wraps  himself 
up  so  well,  and  keeps  at  so  cautious  a  distance,  that  I  can  never 
catch  a  glimpse  of  his  face." 

I  know  not  why,  but  at  that  moment  the  recollection  of  the 
muffled  figure  I  had  seen  upon  the  course  flashed  upon  me. 

"  Does  he  wear  a  long  horseman's  cloak  ? "  said  I. 

"He  does,"  answered  Tyrrell,  in  surprise;  "have  you  ob- 
served him  ?" 

"  I  saw  such  a  person  on  the  race-ground,"  replied  I ;  "but 
only  for  an  instant !  " 

Farther  conversation  was  suspended  by  a  few  heavy  drops 
which  fell  upon  us  ;  the  cloud  had  passed  over  the  moon,  and 
was  hastening  rapidly  and  loweringly  over  our  heads.  Tyrrell 
was  neither  of  an  age,  a  frame,  nor  a  temper,  to  be  so  indiffer- 
ent to  a  hearty  wetting  as  myself. 


260  PELHAM  J 

"  Come,  come,"  he  cried,  "  you  must  put  on  that  beast  of 
yours — I  can't  get  wet  for  all  the  horses  in  the  world." 

I  was  not  much  pleased  with  the  dictatorial  tone  of  this  re- 
mark. "  It  is  impossible,"  said  I,  "  especially  as  the  horse  is 
not  my  own,  and  seems  considerably  lamer  than  at  first  ;  but 
let  me  not  detain  you." 

"Well  !  "  cried  Tyrrell,  in  a  raised  and  angry  voice,  which 
pleased  me  still  less  than  his  former  remark  ;  "but  how  am  I 
to  find  my  way,  if  I  leave  you  ?" 

"  Keep  straight  on,"  said  I,  "  for  a  mile  farther,  then  a  sign- 
post will  direct  you  to  the  left  ;  after  a  short  time,  you  will  have 
a  steep  hill  to  descend,  at  the  bottom  of  which  is  a  large  pool, 
and  a  singularly  shaped  tree  ;  then  again,  keep  straight  on,  till 
you  pass  a  house  belonging  to  Mr.  Dawson — " 

"  Hang  it,  Pelham,  make  haste  !  "  exclaimed  Tyrrell,  im- 
patiently, as  the  rain  began  now  to  descend  fast  and  heavy. 

"  When  you  have  passed  that  house,"  I  resumed  coolly,  rather 
enjoying  his  petulance,  "you  must  bear  to  the  right  for  six 
miles,  and  you  will  be  at  Chester  Park  in  less  than  an* hour." 

Tyrrell  made  no  reply,  but  put  spurs  to  his  horse.  The  pat- 
tering rain  and  the  angry  heavens  soon  drowned  the  last  echoes 
of  the  receding  hoof-clang. 

For  myself,  I  looked  in  vain  for  a  tree  ;  not  even  a  shrub 
was  to  be  found  ;  the  fields  lay  bare  on  either  side,  with  no 
other  partition  but  a  dead  hedge,  and  a  deep  dyke.  "  Melius 
fit  patentid"  etc.,  thought  I,  as  Horace  said,  and  Vincent 
would  say  ;  and  in  order  to  divert  my  thoughts  from  my  sit- 
uation, I  turned  them  towards  my  diplomatic  success  with 
Lord  Chester.  Presently,  for  I  think  scarcely  five  minutes 
had  elapsed  since  Tyrrell's  departure,  a  horseman  passed  me 
at  a  sharp  pace  ;  the  moon  was  hid  by  the  dense  cloud  ;  and 
the  night,  though  not  wholly  dark,  was  dim  and  obscured,  so 
that  I  could  only  catch  the  outline  of  the  flitting  figure.  A 
thrill  of  fear  crept  over  me  when  I  saw  that  it  was  enveloped 
in  a  horseman's  cloak.  I  soon  rallied :  "  There  are  more 
cloaks  in  the  world  than  one,"  said  I  to  myself  ;  "  besides, 
even  if  it  be  Tyrrell's  dodger,  as  he  calls  him,  the  Baronet  is 
better  mounted  than  any  highwayman  since  the  days  of  Du 
Val ;  and  is,  moreover,  strong  enough  and  cunning  enough  to 
take  admirable  care  of  himself."  With  this  reflection  I  dis- 
missed the  occurrence  from  my  thoughts,  and  once  more  re- 
turned to  self-congratulations  upon  my  own  incomparable 
genius.  "  I  shall  now,"  I  thought,  "  have  well  earned  my  seat 
in.  Parliament :  Dawton  will  indisputably  be,  if  not  the  prime, 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          261 

the  principal  minister  in  rank  and  influence.  He  cannot  fail 
to  promote  me  for  his  own  sake,  as  well  as  mine  ;  and  when  I 
have  once  fairly  got  my  legs  in  St.  Stephen's,  I  shall  soon  have 
my  hands  in  office  :  '  Power,'  says  some  one,  'is  a  snake  that, 
when  it  once  finds  a  hole  into  which  it  can  introduce  its  head, 
soon  manages  to  wriggle  in  the  rest  of  its  body.'  " 

With  such  meditations  I  endeavored  to  beguile  the  time,  and 
cheat  myself  into  forgetfulness  of  the  lameness  of  my  horse, 
and  the  dripping  wetness  of  his  rider.  At  last  the  storm 
began  sullenly  to  subside  :  one  impetuous  torrent,  tenfold 
more  violent  than  those  that  had  preceded  it,  was  followed  by 
a  momentary  stillness,  which  was  again  broken  by  a  short  re- 
lapse of  a  less  formidable  severity,  and,  the  moment  it  ceased, 
the  beautiful  moon  broke  out,  the  cloud  rolled  heavily  away, 

and  the  sky  shone  forth,  as  fair  and  smiling  as  Lady at 

a  ball,  after  she  had  been  beating  her  husband  at  home. 

But  at  that  instant,  or  perhaps  a  second  before  the  storm 
ceased,  I  thought  I  heard  the  sound  of  a  human  cry.  I 
paused,  and  my  heart  stood  still — I  could  have  heard  a  gnat 
hum  :  the  sound  was  not  repeated  ;  my  ear  caught  nothing 
but  the  plashing  of  the  rain-drops  from  the  dead  hedges,  and 
the  murmur  of  the  swollen  dykes,  as  the  waters  pent  within 
them  rolled  hurriedly  on.  By  and  by  an  owl  came  suddenly 
from  behind  me,  and  screamed  as  it  flapped  across  my  path  ; 
that,  too,  went  rapidly  away  :  and  with  a  smile  at  what  I 
deemed  my  own  fancy  I  renewed  my  journey.  I  soon  came 
to  the  precipitous  descent  I  have  before  mentioned  ;  I  dis- 
mounted, for  safety,  from  my  drooping  and  jaded  horse,  and 
led  him  down  the  hill.  At  a  distance  beyond  I  saw  something 
dark  moving  on  the  grass  which  bordered  the  road  ;  as  I 
advanced  it  started  forth  from  the  shadow,  and  fled  rapidly 
before  me,  in  the  moonshine — it  was  a  riderless  horse.  A 
chilling  foreboding  seized  me  :  I  looked  round  for  some 
weapon,  such  as  the  hedge  might  afford  ;  and  finding  a  strong 
stick  of  tolerable  weight  and  thickness,  I  proceeded  more 
cautiously,  but  more  fearlessly  than  before.  As  I  wound 
down  the  hill,  the  moonlight  fell  full  upon  the  remarkable  and 
lonely  tree  I  had  observed  in  the  morning.  Bare,  wan,  and 
giantlike,  as  it  rosfe  amidst  the  surrounding  waste,  it  borrowed 
even  a  more  startling  and  ghostly  appearance  from  the  cold  and 
lifeless  moonbeams  which  fell  around  and  upon  it  like  a 
shroud.  The  retreating  steed  I  had  driven  before  me  paused 
by  this  tree.  I  hastened  my  steps,  as  if  by  an  involuntary  im- 
pulse, as  well  as  the  enfeebled  animal  I  was  leading  would 


263  PELHAM  ; 

allow  me,  and  discovered  a  horseman  galloping  across  the 
waste  at  full  speed.  The  ground  over  which  he  passed  was 
steeped  in  the  moonshine,  and  I  saw  the  long  and  disguising 
cloak  in  which  he  was  enveloped  as  clearly  as  by  the  light  of  day. 
I  paused  :  and  as  I  was  following  him  with  my  looks,  my  eye 
fell  upon  some  obscure  object  by  the  left  side  of  the  pool.  I 
threw  my  horse's  rein  over  the  hedge,  and,  firmly  grasp- 
ing my  stick,  hastened  to  the  spot.  As  I  approached  the 
object,  I  perceived  that  it  was  a  human  figure  ;  it  was  lying 
still  and  motionless  :  the  limbs  were  half  immersed  in  the 
water — the  face  was  turned  upwards — the  side  and  throat 
were  wet  with  a  deep  red  stain — it  was  of  blood  :  the  thin, 
dark  hairs  of  the  head  were  clotted  together  over  a  frightful 
and  disfiguring  contusion.  I  bent  over  the  face  in  a  shudder 
ing  and  freezing  silence.  It  was  the  countenance  of  Sir  John 
Tyrrell ! 

CHAPTER  LXV. 

"  Marry,  he  was  dead — 

And  the  right  valiant  Banquo  walked  too  late  : 
Whom  you  may  say,  if  it  please  you,  Fleance  killed, 
For  Fleance  fled  !  "—Macbeth. 

IT  is  a  fearful  thing,  even  to  the  hardiest  nerves,  to  find  our- 
selves suddenly  alone  with  the  dead.  How  much  more  so,  if 
we  have,  but  a  breathing  interval  before,  moved  and  conversed 
with  the  warm  and  living  likeness  of  the  motionless  clay  be- 
fore us  ! 

And  this  was  the  man  from  whom  I  had  parted  in  coldness — 
almost  in  anger — at  a  word — a  breath  !  I  took  up  the  heavy 
hand — it  fell  from  my  grasp  ;  and  as  it  did  so,  I  thought  a 
change  passed  over  the  livid  countenance.  I  was  deceived  ; 
it  was  but  a  light  cloud  flitting  over  the  moon  ;  it  rolled  away, 
and  the  placid  and  guiltless  light  shone  over  that  scene  of 
dread  and  blood,  making  more  wild  and  chilling  the  eternal 
contrast  of  earth  and  heaven — man  and  his  Maker — passion 
and  immutability — death  and  eternal  life. 

But  that  was  not  a  moment  for  reflection  ;  a  thousand 
thoughts  hurried  upon  me,  and  departed  as  swift  and  con- 
fusedly as  they  came.  My  mind  seemed  a  jarring  and  be- 
nighted chaos  of  the  faculties  which  were  its  elements  ;  and  I 
had  stood  several  minutes  over  the  corpse  before,  by  a  vigorous 
effort,  I  shook  off  the  stupor  that  possessed  me,  and  began  to 
think  of  the  course  that  it  now  behooved  me  to  pursue. 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          263 

The  house  I  had  noted  in  the  morning  was,  I  knew,  within 
a  few  minutes'  walk  of  the  spot ;  but  it  belonged  to  Dawson, 
upon  whom  the  first  weight  of  my  suspicions  rested.  I  called 
to  mind  the  disreputable  character  of  that  man,  and  the  still 
more  daring  and  hardened  one  of  his  companion,  Thornton.  I 
remembered  the  reluctance  of  the  deceased  to  accompany 
them,  and  the  well-grounded  reason  he  assigned  ;  and,  my  sus- 
picions amounting  to  certainty,  I  resolved  rather  to  proceed  to 
Chester  Park,  and  there  give  the  alarm,  than  to  run  the  unnec- 
essary risk  of  interrupting  the  murderers  in  the  very  lair  of 
their  retreat.  And  yet,  thought  I,  as  I  turned  slowly  away, 
how,  if  they  were  the  villains,  is  the  appearance  of  flight  of  the 
disguised  horseman  to  be  accounted  for? 

Then  flashed  upon  my  recollection  all  that  Tyrrell  had  said 
of  the  dogged  pursuit  of  that  mysterious  person  and  the  cir- 
cumstance of  his  having  passed  me  upon  the  road  so  immedi- 
ately after  Tyrrell  had  quitted  me.  These  .reflections  (asso- 
ciated with  a  name  that  I  did  not  dare  breathe  even  to  myself, 
although  I  could  not  suppress  a  suspicion  which  accounted  at 
once  for  the  pursuit,  and  even  for  the  deed)  made  me  waver  in, 
and  almost  renounce,  my  former  condemnation  of  Thornton 
and  his  friend  ;  and  by  the  time  I  reached  the  white  gate  and 
dwarfish  avenue  which  led  to  Dawson's  house,  I  resolved,  at  all 
events,  to  halt  at  the  solitary  mansion,  and  mark  the  effect  my 
information  would  cause. 

A  momentary  fear  for  my  own  safety  came  across  me,  but 
was  as  instantly  dismissed  ;  for  even  supposing  the  friends  were 
guilty,  still  it  would  be  no  object  to  them  to  extend  their  re- 
morseless villany  to  me  ;  and  I  knew  that  I  could  sufficiently 
command  my  own  thoughts  to  prevent  any  suspicion  I  might 
form  from  mounting  to  my  countenance,  or  discovering  itself 
in  my  manner. 

There  was  a  light  in  the  upper  story  ;  it  burned  still  and 
motionless.  How  holy  seemed  the  tranquillity  of  life,  con- 
trasted with  the  forced  and  fearful  silence  of  the  death  scene  I 
had  just  witnessed  !  I  rang  twice  at  the  door — no  one  came 
to  answer  my  summons,  but  the  light  in  the  upper  window 
moved  hurriedly  to  and  fro. 

"They  are  coming,"  said  I  to  myself.  No  such  thing — the 
casement  above  was  opened — I  looked  up,  and  discovered,  to 
my  infinite  comfort  and  delight,  a  blunderbuss  protruded 
eight  inches  out  of  the  window  in  a  direct  line  with  my 
head  ;  I  receded  close  to  the  wall  with  no  common  precipi- 
tation, 


264  PELHAM  ; 

"  Get  away,  you  rascal,"  said  a  gruff,  but  trembling,  voice, 
"  or  I'll  blow  your  brains  out." 

"  My  good  sir,"  I  replied,  still  keeping  my  situation,  "  I  come 
on  urgent  business,  either  to  Mr  Thornton  or  Mr.  Dawson  ; 
and  you  had  better,  therefore,  if  the  delay  is  not  very  incon- 
venient, defer  the  honor  you  offer  me  till  I  have  delivered  my 
message." 

"Master  and  'Squire  Thornton  are  not  returned  from  New- 
market, and  we  cannot  let  any  one  in  till  they  come  home," 
replied  the  voice,  in  a  tone  somewhat  mollified  by  my  rational 
remonstrance  ;  and  while  I  was  deliberating  what  rejoinder  to 
make,  a  rough,  red  head,  like  Liston's  in  a  farce,  poked  itself 
cautiously  out  under  cover  of  the  blunderbuss,  and  seemed  to 
reconnoitre  my  horse  and  myself.  Presently  another  head, 
but  attired  in  the  more  civilized  gear  of  a  cap  and  flowers, 
peeped  over  the  first  person's  left  shoulder  ;  the  view  appeared 
to  reassure  them  both. 

"Sir,"  said  the  female,  "my  husband  and  Mr.  Thornton  are  not 
returned;  and  we  have  been  so  much  alarmed  of  late  by  an  attack 
on  the  house  that  I  cannot  admit  any  one  till  their  return." 

"  Madam,"  I  replied,  reverently  doffing  my  hat,  "  I  do  not 
like  to  alarm  you  by  mentioning  the  information  I  should  have 
given  to  Mr.  Dawson  ;  only  oblige  me  by  telling  them,  on  their 
return,  to  look  beside  the  pool  on  the  common  ;  they  will  then 
do  as  best  pleases  them." 

Upon  this  speech,  which  certainly  was  of  no  agreeable  ten- 
dency, the  blunderbuss  palpitated  so  violently  that  I  thought 
it  highly  imprudent  to  tarry  any  longer  in  so  perilous  a  vicin- 
ity ;  accordingly,  I  made  the  best  of  my  way  out  of  the 
avenue,  and  once  more  resumed  my  road  to  Chester  Park. 

I  arrived  there  at  length  ;  the  gentlemen  were  still  in  the 
dining-room.  I  sent  out  for  Lord  Chester,  and  communicated 
the  scene  I  had  witnessed  and  the  cause  of  my  delay. 

"  What !  Brown  Bob  lamed  ?"said  he,  "  and  Tyrrell — poor — 
poor  fellow,  how  shocking  !  We  must  send  instantly.  Here, 
John  !  Tom  !  Wilson  ! "  and  his  lordship  shouted  and  rang  the 
bell  in  an  indescribable  agitation. 

The  under  butler  appeared,  and  Lord  Chester  began:  "  My 
head  groom — Sir  John  Tyrrell  is  murdered — violent  sprain  in 
off  leg — send  lights  with  Mr.  Pelham — poor  gentleman — an 
express  instantly  to  Dr.  Physicon — Mr.  Pelham  will  tell  you 
all — Brown  Bob — his  throat  cut  from  ear  to  ear — what  shall  be 
done?  "  and  with  this  coherent  and  explanatory  harangue,  the 
marquis  sank  down  in  his  chair  in  a  sort  of  hysteric, 


6R,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         265 

The  under  butler  looked  at  him  in  suspicious  bewilderment. 
"  Come,"  said  I,  "I  will  explain  what  his  lordship  means"; 
and,  taking  the  man  out  of  the  room,  I  gave  him,  in  brief,  the 
necessary  particulars.  I  ordered  a  fresh  horse  for  myself,  and 
four  horsemen  to  accompany  me.  While  these  were  preparing, 
the  news  was  rapidly  spreading,  and  I  was  soon  surrounded  by 
the  whole  house.  Many  of  the  gentlemen  wished  to  accom- 
pany me  ;  and  Lord  Chester,  who  had  at  last  recovered  from 
his  stupor,  insisted  upon  heading  the  search.  We  set  off,  to 
the  number  of  fourteen,  and  soon  arrived  at  Dawson's  house  : 
the  light  in  the  upper  room  was  still  burning.  We  rang,  and 
after  a  brief  pause,  Thornton  himself  opened  the  door  to  us. 
He  looked  pale  and  agitated. 

"How  shocking!"  he  said  directly;  "we  are  only  just 
returned  from  the  spot." 

"Accompany  us,  Mr.  Thornton,"  said  I  sternly,  and  fixing 
my  eye  upon  him. 

"  Certainly,"  was  his  immediate  answer,  without  testifying 
any  confusion  ;  "  I  will  fetch  my  hat."  He  went  into  the 
house  for  a  moment. 

"  Do  you  suspect  these  people  ?  "  whispered  Lord  Chester. 

"  Not  suspect,"  said  I,  "  but  doubt." 

We  proceeded  down  the  avenue  :  "  \Vhere  is  Mr.  Dawson  ? " 
said  I  to  Thornton. 

"  Oh,  within  !  "  answered  Thornton.     "  Shall  I  fetch  him  ? " 

"  Do,"  was  my  brief  reply. 

Thornton  was  absent  some  minutes ;  when  he  reappeared, 
Dawson  was  following  him.  "  Poor  fellow,"  said  he  to  me  in 
a  low  tone,  "  he  was  so  shocked  by  the  sight,  that  he  is  still  all 
in  a  panic  ;  besides,  as  you  will  see,  he  is  half  drunk  still." 

I  made  no  answer,  but  looked  narrowly  at  Dawson  ;  he  was 
evidently,  as  Thornton  said,  greatly  intoxicated  ;  his  eyes  swam, 
and  his  feet  staggered  as  he  approached  us  ;  yet,  through  all 
the  natural  effects  of  drunkenness,  he  seemed  nervous  and 
frightened.  This,  however,  might  be  the  natural  (and  con- 
sequently innocent)  effect  of  the  mere  sight  of  an  object  so  full 
of  horror  ;  and,  accordingly,  I  laid  little  stress  upon  it. 

We  reached  the  fatal  spot  :  the  body  seemed  perfectly 
unmoved.  "  Why,"  said  I,  apart  to  Thornton,  while  all  the 
rest  were  crowding  fearfully  round  the  corpse  ;  "  Why  did  you 
not  take  the  body  within  ?  " 

"  I  was  going  to  return  here  with  our  servant  for  that  pur- 
pose," answered  the  gambler  ;  "  for  poor  Dawson  was  both  too 
drunk  and  too  nervous  to  give  me  any  assistance." 


266  1>ELHAM  J 

"  And  how  came  it,"  I  rejoined,  eyeing  him  searchingly, 
"  that  you  and  your  friend  had  not  returned  home  when  I 
called  there,  although  you  had  both  long  since  passed  me  on 
the  road,  and  I  had  never  overtaken  you  ?  " 

Thornton,  without  any  hesitation,  replied:  "  Because,  during 
the  violence  of  the  shower,  we  cut  across  the  fields  to  an  old 
shed,  which  we  recollected,  and  we  remained  there  till  the 
rain  had  ceased." 

"They  are  probably  innocent,"  thought  I;  and  I  turned  to 
look  once  more  at  the  body,  which  our  companions  had  now 
raised.  There  was  upon  the  head  a  strong  contusion,  as  if 
inflicted  by  some  blunt  and  heavy  instrument.  The  fingers  of 
the  right  hand  were  deeply  gashed,  and  one  of  them  almost 
dissevered  :  the  unfortunate  man  had,  in  all  probability,  grasped 
the  sharp  weapon  from  which  his  other  wounds  proceeded  ; 
there  were  one  wide  cut  along  the  throat,  and  another  in  the 
side  ;  either  of  them  would  have  occasioned  his  death. 

In  loosening  the  clothes  another  wound  was  discovered,  imt 
apparently  of  a  less  fatal  nature  ;  and  in  lifting  the  body  the 
broken  blade  of  a  long  sharp  instrument,  like  a  case-knife,  was 
discovered.  It  was  the  opinion  of  the  surgeon,  who  afterwards 
examined  the  body,  that  the  blade  had  been  broken  by  coming 
in  contact  with  one  of  the  rib  bones ;  and  it  was  by  this  that 
he  accounted  for  the  slightness  of  the  last-mentioned  wound. 
I  looked  carefully  among  the  fern  and  long  grass,  to  see  if  I 
could  discover  any  other  token  of  the  murderer :  Thornton 
assisted  me.  At  the  distance  of  some  feet  from  the  body,  I 
thought  I  perceived  something  glitter.  I  hastened  to  the  place, 
and  picked  up  a  miniature.  I  was  just  going  to  cry  out,  when 
Thornton  whispered  :  "  Hush  !  I  know  the  picture  ;  it  is  as  I 
suspected  !  " 

An  icy  thrill  ran  through  my  very  heart.  With  a  desperate 
but  trembling  hand,  I  cleansed  from  the  picture  the  blood, 
in  which,  notwithstanding  its  distance  from  the  corpse,  the 
greater  part  of  it  was  bathed.  I  looked  upon  the  features  ; 
they  were  those  of  a  young  and  singularly  beautiful  female.  I 
recognized  them  not :  I  turned  to  the  other  side  of  the  minia- 
ture ;  upon  it  were  braided  two  locks  of  hair — one  was  the 
long,  dark  ringlet  of  a  woman,  the  other  was  of  a  light  auburn. 
Beneath  were  four  letters.  I  looked  eagerly  at  them.  "  My 
eyes  are  dim,"  said  I  in  a  low  tone  to  Thornton,  "  I  cannot 
trace  the  initials." 

"But  /can,"  replied  he,  in  the  same  whispered  key,  but  with 
a  savage  exultation,  which  made  my  heart  stand  still  :  "  they 


OR,    ADVENTURES   OF    A    GENTLEMAN.  267 

are  G.  D.,  R.  G.;  they  are  the  initials  of  Gertrude  Douglas  and 
Reginald  Glanville." 

I  looked  up  at  the  speaker — our  eyes  met — I  grasped  his 
hand  vehemently.  He  understood  me.  "  Put  it  up,"  said  he  ; 
"  we  will  keep  the  secret."  All  this,  so  long  in  the  recital, 
passed  in  the  rapidity  of  a  moment. 

"Have  you  found  anything  there,  Pelham?"  shouted  one  of 
our  companions. 

"  No  ! "  cried  I,  thrusting  the  miniature  in  my  bosom,  and 
turning  unconcernedly  away. 

We  carried  the  corpse  to  Dawson's  house.  The  poor  wife 
was  in  fits.  We  heard  her  scream  as  we  laid  the  body  upon  a 
table  in  the  parlor. 

"What  more  can  be  done  ?"  said  Lord  Chester. 

"  Nothing,"  was  the  general  answer.  No  excitement  makes 
people  insensible  to  the  chance  of  catching  cold  ! 

"  Let  us  go  home,  then,  and  send  to  the  nearest  magistrate," 
exclaimed  our  host :  and  this  proposal  required  no  repetition. 

On  our  way,  Chester  said  to  me,  "  That  fellow  Dawson  looked 
devilish  uneasy — don't  you  still  suspect  him  and  his  friend  ?  " 

"  I  do  not    "  answered  I  emphatically. 

CHAPTER  LXVI. 

"  And  now  I'm  in  the  world  alone, 
#  *  *  *  * 

But  why  for  others  should  I  groan, 

When  none  will  sigh  for  me  ?  " — BYRON. 

THE  whole  country  was  in  confusion  at  the  news  of  the 
murder.  All  the  myrmidons  of  justice  were  employed  in  the 
most  active  research  for  the  murderers.  Some  few  persons 
were  taken  up  on  suspicion,  but  were  as  instantly  discharged. 
Thornton  and  Dawson  underwent  a  long  and  rigorous  exam- 
ination ;  but  no  single  tittle  of  evidence  against  them  appeared  ; 
they  were  consequently  dismissed.  The  only  suspicious  cir- 
cumstance against  them  was  their  delay  on  the  road  ;  but  the 
cause  given,  the  same  as  Thornton  had  at  first  assigned  to  me, 
was  probable  and  natural.  The  shed  was  indicated,  and,  as 
if  to  confirm  Thornton's  account,  a  glove  belonging  to  that 
person  was  found  there.  To  crown  all,  my  own  evidence,  in 
which  I  was  constrained  to  mention  the  circumstance  of  the 
muffled  horseman  having  passed  me  on  the  road,  and  being 
found  by  me  on  the  spot  itself,  threw  the  whole  weight  of  sus* 
picion  upon  that  man,  whoever  he  might  be. 


268  PELHAM  J 

All  attempts,  however,  to  discover  him  were  in  vain.  It 
was  ascertained  that  a  man,  muffled  in  a  cloak,  was  seen  at 
Newmarket,  but  not  remarkably  observed  ;  it  was  also  dis- 
covered that  a  person  so  habited  had  put  up  a  gray  horse  to 
bait  in  one  of  the  inns  at  Newmarket  ;  but  in  the  throng  of 
strangers  neither  the  horse  nor  its  owner  had  drawn  down  any 
particular  remark. 

On  further  inquiry,  testimony  differed  ;  four  or  five  men,  in 
cloaks,  had  left  their  horses  at  the  stables  ;  one  ostler  changed 
the  color  of  the  steed  to  brown,  a  second  to  black,  a  third 
deposed  that  the  gentleman  was  remarkably  tall,  and  the 
waiter  swore  solemnly  he  had  given  a  glass  of  brandy  and 
water  to  an  miked  looking  gentleman  in  a  cloak,  who  was  re- 
markably short.  In  fine,  no  material  point  could  be  proved, 
and  though  the  officers  were  still  employed  in  active  search, 
they  could  trace  nothing  that  promised  a  speedy  discovery. 

As  for  myself,  as  soon  as  I  decently  could,  I  left  Chester 
Park,  with  a  most  satisfactory  despatch  in  my  pocket  from  its 
possessor  to  Lord  Dawton,  and  found  myself  once  more  on 
the  road  to  London. 

Alas  !  how  different  were  my  thoughts,  how  changed  the 
temper  of  my  mind,  since  I  had  last  travelled  that  road ! 
Then  I  was  full  of  hope,  energy,  ambition — of  interest  for 
Reginald  Glanville — of  adoration  for  his  sister  ;  and  now,  I 
leaned  back  listless  and  dispirited,  without  a  single  feeling  to 
gladden  the  restless  and  feverish  despair  which,  ever  since 
that  night,  had  possessed  me  !  What  was  ambition  henceforth 
to  me  ?  The  most  selfish  amongst  us  must  have  some  human 
being  to  whom  to  refer,  with  whom  to  connect,  to  associate,  to 
treasure,  the  triumphs  and  gratifications  of  self.  Where  now 
for  my  heart  was  such  a  being?  My  earliest  friend,  for  whom 
my  esteem  was  the  greater  for  his  sorrows,  my  interest  the 
keener  for  his  mystery,  Reginald  Glanville,  was  a  murderer ! 
A  dastardly,  a  barbarous  felon,  whom  the  chance  of  an  instant 
might  convict !  And  she — she,  the  only  woman  in  the  world 
I  had  ever  really  loved — who  had  ever  pierced  the  thousand 
folds  of  my  ambitious  and  scheming  heart — she  was  the  sister 
of  the  assassin  ! 

Then  came  over  my  mind  the  savage  and  exulting  eye  of 
Thornton,  when  it  read  the  damning  record  of  Glanville's 
guilt  ;  and  in  spite  of  my  horror  at  the  crime  of  my  former 
friend,  I  trembled  for  his  safety,  nor  was  I  satisfied  with  myself 
at  my  prevarication  as  a  witness.  It  is  true  that  I  had  told  the 
truth,  but  I  had  concealed  all  the  truth  ;  and  my  heart  swelled 


OR,    ADVENTURES   OF    A    GENTLEMAN.  269 

proudly  and  bitterly  against  the  miniature  which  I  still  con- 
cealed in  my  bosom. 

To  save  a  criminal,  in  whose  safety  I  was  selfishly  concerned, 
I  felt  that  I  had  tampered  with  my  honor,  paltered  with  the 
truth,  and  broken  what  justice,  not  over-harshly,  deemed  a  per- 
emptory and  inviolable  duty. 

It  was  with  a  heightened  pulse  and  a  burning  cheek  that  I 
entered  London  ;  before  midnight  I  was  in  a  high  fever  ;  they 
sent  for  the  vultures  of  physic — I  was  bled  copiously — I  was 
kept  quiet  in  bed  for  six  days  ;  at  the  end  of  that  time  my  con- 
stitution and  youth  restored  me.  I  took  up  one  of  the  news- 
papers listlessly  ;  Glanville's  name  struck  me  ;  I  read  the  par- 
agraph which  contained  it — it  was  a  high-flown  and  fustian 
panegyric  on  his  genius  and  promise.  I  turned  to  another  col- 
umn :  it  contained  a  long  speech  he  had  the  night  before  made 
in  the  House  of  Commons. 

"Can  such  things  be  ?"  thought  I  ;  yea,  and  thereby  hangs 
a  secret  and  an  anomaly  in  the  human  heart.  A  man  may 
commit  the  greatest  of  crimes,  and  (if  no  other  succeed  to  it) 
it  changes  not  the  current  of  his  being  ;  to  all  the  world — to 
all  intents — for  all  objects  he  may  be  the  same.  He  may 
equally  serve  his  country  ;  equally  benefit  his  friends  ;  be  gen- 
erous ;  brave  ;  benevolent,  all  that  he  was  before.  One  crime, 
however  heinous,  does  not  necessarily  cause  a  revolution  in  the 
system — it  is  only  the  perpetual  course  of  sins,  vices,  follies, 
however  insignificant  they  may  seem,  which  alters  the  nature 
and  hardens  the  heart. 

My  mother  was  out  of  town  when  I  returned  there.  They 
had  written  to  her  during  my  illness,  and  while  I  was  yet  mus- 
ing over  the  day's  journal,  a  letter  from  her  was  put  into  my 
hand.  I  transcribe  it : 

"  My  DEAREST  HENRY  : 

"How  dreadfully  uneasy  I  am  about  you!  Write  to  me  directly. 
I  would  come  to  town  myself,  but  am  staying  with  dear  Lady 
Dawton,  who  will  not  hear  of  my  going ;  and  I  cannot  offend 
her,  for  your  sake.  By  the  by,  why  have  you  not  called  upon 
Lord  Dawton  ?  but,  I  forgot,  you  have  been  ill.  My  dear, 
dear  child,  I  am  wretched  about  you,  and  how  pale  your  illness 
will  make  you  look  !  just,  too,  as  the  best  part  of  the  season  is 
coming  on.  How  unlucky  !  Pray  don't  wear  a  black  cravat 
when  you  next  call  on  Lady  Roseville  ;  but  choose  a  very  fine 
baptistc  one — it  will  make  you  look  rather  delicate  than  ill. 
What  physician  do  you  have  ?  I  hope,  in  God,  that  it  is  Sir 


270  PELHAKt  J 

Henry  Halford.  I  shall  be  too  miserable  if  it  is  not.  I  am 
sure  no  one  can  conceive  the  anguish  I  suffer.  Your  father, 
poor  man,  has  been  laid  up  with  the  gout  for  the  last  three 
days.  Keep  up  your  spirits,  my  dearest  child,  and  get  some 
light  books  to  entertain  you  :  but,  pray,  as  soon  as  you  are 
well,  do  go  to  Lord  Dawton's — he  is  dying  to  see  you  ;  but  be 
sure  not  to  catch  cold.  How  did  you  like  Lady  Chester? 
Pray  take  the  greatest  care  of  yourself,  and  write  to 

"  Your  wretched  and  most  affectionate  mother, 

"F.  P. 

"  P.  S. — How  dreadfully  shocking  about  that  poor  Sir  John 
Tyrrell !  " 

I  tossed  the  letter  from  me.  Heaven  pardon  me  if  the  mis- 
anthropy of  my  mood  made  me  less  grateful  for  the  maternal 
solicitude  than  I  should  otherwise  have  been. 

I  took  up  one  of  the  numerous  books  with  which  my  table 
was  covered  ;  it  was  a  worldly  work  of  one  of  the  French  rea- 
soners ;  it  gave  a  new  turn  to  my  thoughts — my  mind  reverted 
to  its  former  projects  of  ambition.  Who  does  not  know  what 
active  citizens  private  misfortune  make  us  ?  The  public  is  like 
the  pools  of  Bethesda — we  all  hasten  there,  to  plunge  in  and 
rid  ourselves  of  our  afflictions. 

I  drew  my  portfolio  to  me,  and  wrote  to  Lord  Dawton. 
Three  hours  after  I  had  sent  the  note  he  called  upon  me.  I 
gave  him  Lord  Chester's  letter,  but  he  had  already  received 
from  that  nobleman  a  notification  of  my  success.  He  was 
profuse  in  his  compliments  and  thanks. 

"And  do  you  know,"  added  the  statesman,  "that  you  have 
quite  made  a  conquest  of  Lord  Guloseton  ?  He  speaks  of  you 
publicly  in  the  highest  terms  :  I  wish  we  could  get  him  and  his 
votes.  We  must  be  strengthened,  my  dear  Pelham  ;  everything 
depends  on  the  crisis." 

"  Are  you  certain  of  the  cabinet  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Yes  ;  it  is  not  yet  publicly  announced,  but  it  is  fully  known 
amongst  us,  who  comes  in  and  who  stays  out.  I  am  to  have 
the  place  of ." 

"  I  congratulate  your  lordship  from  my  heart.  What  post 
do  you  design  for  me  ?  " 

Lord  Dawton  changed  countenance.  "Why — really — Pel- 
ham,  we  have  not  yet  filled  up  the  lesser  appointments  ;  but 
you  shall  be  well  remembered — well,  my  dear  Pelham — be  sure 
of  it." 

I  looked  at  the  noble  speaker  with  a  glance,  which,  I  flatter 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         2ji 

myself,  is  peculiar  to  me.  Is,  thought  I,  the  embryo  minister 
playing  upon  me  as  upon  one  of  his  dependent  tools  ?  Let  him 
beware  !  The  anger  of  the  moment  passed  away. 

"  Lord  Dawton,"  said  I,  "one  word,  and  I  have  done  discuss- 
ing my  claims  for  the  present.  Do  you  mean  to  place  me  in 
Parliament  as  soon  as  you  are  in  the  cabinet  ?  What  else  you 
intend  for  me,  I  question  not." 

"  Yes,  assuredly,  Pelham.     How  can  you  doubt  it  ?  " 

"  Enough  !     And  now  read  this  letter  from  France." 
******* 

Two  days  after  my  interview  with  Lord  Dawton,  as  I  was  riding 
leisurely  through  the  Green  Park,  in  no  very  bright  and  social 
mood,  one  of  the  favored  carriages,  whose  owners  are  permitted 
to  say,  "  Hie  tier  est  nobis"  overtook  me.  A  sweet  voice  or- 
dered the  coachman  to  stop,  and  then  addressed  itself  to  me : 

"  What,  the  hero  of  Chester  Park  returned,  without  having 
once  narrated  his  adventures  to  me  ?  " 

"  Beautiful  Lady  Roseville,"  said  I,  "  I  plead  guilty  of  neg- 
ligence— not  treason.  I  forgot,  it  is  true,  to  appear  before  you, 
but  I  forget  not  the  devotion  of  my  duty  now  that  I  behold 
you.  Command,  and  I  obey." 

"  See,  Ellen,"  said  Lady  Roseville,  turning  to  a  bending  and 
blushing  countenance  beside  her,  which  I  then  first  perceived  ; 
"see  what  it  is  to  be  a  knight-errant;  even  his  language  is 
worthy  of  Amadis  of  Gaul — but — (again  addressing  me)  your 
adventures  are  really  too  shocking  a  subject  to  treat  lightly. 
We  lay  our  serious  orders  on  you  to  come  to  our  castle  this 
night ;  we  shall  be  alone." 

"  Willingly  shall  I  repair  to  your  bower,  fayre  ladie  ;  but  tell 
me,  I  beseech  you,  how  many  persons  are  signified  in  the 
word  '  alone  '  ?" 

"Why,"  answered  Lady  Roseville,  ""ive  may  have  a  few 
people  with  us ;  but  I  think,  Ellen,  we  may  promise  our  cheva- 
lier that  the  number  shall  not  exceed  twelve." 

I  bowed  and  rode  on.  What  worlds  would  I  not  have  given 
to  have  touched  the  hand  of  the  Countess's  companion,  though 
only  for  an  instant.  But — and  that  fearful  but  chilled  me,  like 
an  icebolt.  I  put  spurs  to  my  horse,  and  dashed  fiercely  on- 
wards. There  was  rather  a  high  wind  stirring,  and  I  bent  my 
face  from  it,  so  as  scarcely  to  see  the  course  of  my  spirited  and 
impatient  horse. 

"  What  ho,  sir  ! — what  ho  !  "  cried  a  shrill  voice  ;  "  for 
Heaven's  sake,  don't  ride  over  me  before  dinner,  whatever  you 
do  after  it ! " 


272  PELHAM  ; 

I  pulled  up.  "Ah,  Lord  Guloseton  !  how  happy  I  am  to 
see  you  ;  pray  forgive  my  blindness,  and  my  horse's  stupidity." 

"  'Tis  an  ill  wind,"  answered  the  noble  gourmand,  "  which 
blows  nobody  good  ;  an  excellent  proverb,  the  veracity  of 
which  is  daily  attested  ;  for,  however  unpleasant  a  keen  wind 
may  be,  there  is  no  doubt  of  its  being  a  marvellous  whetter  of 
that  greatest  of  Heaven's  blessings — an  appetite.  Little,  how- 
ever, did  I  expect,  that  besides  blowing  me  a  relish  for  my 
saute  de  foie  gras,  it  would  also  blow  me  one  who  might,  prob- 
ably, be  a  partaker  of  my  enjoyment.  Honor  me  with  your 
company  at  dinner  to-day." 

"  What  saloon  will  you  dine  in,  my  Lord  Lucullus?"  said  I, 
in  allusion  to  the  custom  of  the  epicure,  by  whose  name  I 
addressed  him. 

"  The  saloon  of  Diana,"  replied  Guloseton  ;  "  for  she  must 
certainly  have  shot  the  fine  buck  of  which  Lord  H.  sent  me 
the  haunch  that  we  shall  have  to-day.  It  is  the  true  old  Mey- 
nell  breed.  I  ask  you  not  to  meet  Mr.  So-and-so,  and  Lord 
What-d'ye-call-him  :  I  ask  you  to  meet  a  saute"  de  foie  gras,z\\& 
a  haunch  of  venison." 

"  I  will  most  certainly  pay  them  my  respects.  Never  did  I 
know  before  how  far  things  were  better  company  than  persons. 
Your  lordship  has  taught  me  that  great  truth." 

"  God  bless  me  !  "  cried  Guloseton,  with  an  air  of  vexation, 
"here  comes  the  Duke  of  Stilton — a  horrid  person,  who  told 
me  the  other  day,  at  my  petit  diner,  when  I  apologized  to  him  for 
some  strange  error  of  my  artiste's,  by  which  common  vinegar 
had  been  substituted  for  Chili — who  told  me — what  think  you 
he  told  me?  You  cannot  guess, — he  told  me,  forsooth,  that 
he  did  not  care  what  he  ate  ;  and,  for  his  part,  he  could  make 
a  very  good  dinner  off  a  beefsteak  !  Why  the  deuce,  then,  did 
he  come  and  dine  with  me?  Could  he  have  said  anything 
more  cutting?  Imagine  n?y  indignation,  when  I  looked  round 
my  table  and  saw  so  many  good  things  thrown  away  upon  such 
an  idiot." 

Scarcely  was  the  last  word  out  of  the  gourmand's  mouth  be- 
fore the  noble  personage  so  designated  joined  us.  It  amused 
me  to  see  Guloseton's  contempt  (which  he  scarcely  took  the 
pains  to  suppress)  of  a  person  whom  all  Europe  honored,  and 
his  evident  weariness  of  a  companion  whose  society  every  one 
else  would  have  coveted  as  the  summum  bonum  of  worldly  dis- 
tinction. As  for  me,  feeling  anything  but  social,  I  soon  left 
the  ill-matched  pair,  and  rode  into  the  other  park. 

Just  as  I  entered  it  I  perceived,  on  a  dull,  yet  cross-looking 


OR,  ADVENTURES   OF    A    GENTLEMAN.  273 

pony,  Mr.  Wormwood,  of  bitter  memory,  Although  we  had 
not  met  since  our  mutual  sojourn  at  Sir  Lionel  Garrett's,  and 
were  then  upon  very  cool  terms  of  acquaintance,  he  seemed 
resolved  to  recognize  and  claim  me. 

"  My  dear  sir,"  said  he,  with  a  ghastly  smile,  "I  am  rejoiced 
once  more  to  see  you  ;  bless  me,  how  pale  you  look  !  I  heard 
you  had  been  very  ill.  Pray,  have  you  been  yet  to  that  man 
who  professes  to  cure  consumption  in  the  worst  stages?" 

"Yes,"  said  I  ;  "he  read  me  two  or  three  letters  of  reference 
from  the  patients  he  had  cured.  His  last,  he  said,  was  a  gen- 
tleman very  far  gone — a  Mr.  Wormwood." 

"  Oh,  you  are  pleased  to  be  facetious,"  said  the  cynic  coldly  ; 
*'  but  pray  do  tell  me  about  that  horrid  affair  at  Chester  Park. 
How  disagreeable  it  must  have  been  to  you  to  be  taken  up  on 
suspicion  of  the  murder!  " 

"  Sir,"  said  I  haughtily,  "  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you  were  not — weren't  you  ?  Well,  I  always  thought  it 
unlikely  ;  but  every  one  says  so — " 

"  My  dear  sir,"  I  rejoined,  "  how  long  is  it  since  you  have 
minded  what  everybody  says  ?  If  I  were  so  foolish,  I  should 
not  be  riding  with  you  now  ;  but  /  have  always  said,  in  con- 
tradiction to  everybody,  and  even  in  spite  of  being  universally 
laughed  at  for  my  singular  opinion,  that  you,  my  dear  Mr. 
Wormwood,  were  by  no  means  silly,  nor  ignorant,  nor  insolent, 
nor  intrusive  ;  that  you  were,  on  the  contrary,  a  very  decent 
author,  and  a  very  good  sort  of  man  ;  and  that  you  were  so 
benevolent,  that  you  daily  granted,  to  some  one  or  other,  the 
greatest  happiness  in  your  power  :  it  is  a  happiness  I  am  now 
about  to  enjoy,  and  it  consists  in  wishing  you l good-bye  '/  "  And 
without  waiting  for  Mr.  Wormwood's  answer,  I  gave  the  rein 
to  my  horse,  and  was  soon  lost  among  the  crowd,  which  had 
now  begun  to  assemble. 

Hyde  Park  is  a  stupid  place.  The  English  of  the  fashiona- 
ble world  make  business  an  enjoyment,  and  enjoyment  a  busi- 
ness :  they  are  born  without  a  smile  ;  they  rove  about  public 
places  like  so  many  easterly  winds — cold,  sharp,  and  cutting  ; 
or  like  a  group  of  fogs  on  a  frosty  day,  sent  out  of  his  hall  by 
Boreas,  for  the  express  purpose  of  looking  black  at  one  another. 
When  they  ask  you,  "  How  you  do,"  you  would  think  they 
were  measuring  the  length  of  your  coffin.  They  are  ever,  it 
is  true,  laboring  to  be  agreeable  ;  but  they  are  like  Sisyphus, 
the  stone  they  roll  up  the  hill  with  so  much  toil  runs  down 
again  and  hits  you  a  thump  on  the  legs.  They  are  sometimes 
polite  t\r\\\.  un'/ariably  uncivil ;  their  warmth  is  always  artificial — • 


274  PELHAM  J 

their  cold  never  ;  they  are  stiff  without  dignity,  and  cringing 
without  manners.  They  offer  you  an  affront,  and  call  it 
"plain  truth";  they  wound  your  feelings,  and  tell  you  it  is 
manly  "  to  speak  their  minds";  at  the  same  time,  while  they 
have  neglected  all  the  graces  and  charities  of  artifice,  they 
have  adopted  all  its  falsehood  and  deceit.  While  they  profess 
to  abhor  servility,  they  adulate  the  peerage  ;  while  they  tell 
you  they  care  not  a  rush  for  the  minister,  they  move  heaven 
and  earth  for  an  invitation  from  the  minister's  wife.  Then 
their  amusements  !  the  heat — the  dust — the  sameness — the 
slowness,  of  that  odious  park  in  the  morning ;  and  the  same 
exquisite  scene  repeated  in  the  evening,  on  the  condensed 
stage  of  a  rout-room,  where  one  has  more  heat,  with  less  air, 
and  a  narrower  dungeon,  with  diminished  possibility  of  escape  ! 
We  wander  about  like  the  damned  in  the  story  of  Vathek,  and 
we  pass  our  lives,  like  the  royal  philosopher  of  Prussia,  in 
conjugating  the  verb,  Je  m*  ennuis. 

CHAPTER  LXVII. 
"  In  solo  vivendi  causa  palato  est." — JUVENAL. 

"  They  would  talk  of  nothing  but  high  life,  and  the  high-lived  com- 
pany ;  with  other  fashionable  topics,  such  as  pictures,  taste,  Shakspeare, 
and  the  musical  glasses." — Vicar  of  Wakefield. 

THE  reflections  which  closed  the  last  chapter  will  serve  to 
show  that  I  was  in  no  very  amiable  or  convivial  temper  when  I 
drove  to  Lord  Guloseton's  dinner.  However,  in  the  world,  it 
matters  little  what  may  be  our  real  mood,  the  mask  hides  the 
bent  brow  and  the  writhing  lip. 

Guloseton  was  stretched  on  his  sofa,  gazing  with  upward  eye 
at  the  beautiful  Venus  which  hung  above  his  hearth.  ''You  are 
welcome,  Pelham  ;  I  am  worshipping  my  household  divinity  !  " 

I  prostrated  myself  on  the  opposite  sofa,  and  made  some 
answer  to  the  classical  epicure,  which  made  us  both  laugh 
heartily.  We  then  talked  of  pictures,  painters,  poets,  the 
ancients,  and  Dr.  Henderson  on  Wines  ;  we  gave  ourselves  up, 
without  restraint,  to  the  enchanting  fascination  of  the  last- 
named  subject ;  and,  our  mutual  enthusiasm  confirming  our 
cordiality,  we  went  downstairs  to  our  dinner  as  charmed  with 
each  other  as  boon  companions  always  should  be. 

"  This  is  as  it  should  be,"  said  I,  looking  round  at  the  well- 
filled  table,  and  the  sparkling  spirits  immersed  in  the  ice-pails  ; 
"  a  genuine  friendly  dinner.  It  is  very  rarely  that  I  dare 
entrust  myself  to  such  extempore  hospitality — miserutn  est 


OR,    ADVENTURES    OF    A    GENTLEMAN.  275 

aliend  vivere  quadrd ;  a  friendly  dinner,  a  family  meal,  are 
things  from  which  I  fly  with  undisguised  aversion.  It  is  very 
hard  that  in  England  one  cannot  have  a  friend,  on  pain  of 
being  shot  or  poisoned  ;  if  you  refuse  his  familiar  invitations, 
he  thinks  you  mean  to  affront  him,  and  says  something  rude, 
for  which  you  are  forced  to  challenge  him  ;  if  you  accept  them 
you  perish  beneath  the  weight  of  boiled  mutton  and  turnips, 
or — " 

"  My  dear  friend,"  interrupted  Guloseton,  with  his  mouth 
full,  "  it  is  very  true  ;  but  this  is  no  time  for  talking  ;  let  us  eat." 

I  acknowledged  the  justice  of  the  rebuke,  and  we  did  not 
interchange  another  word  beyond  the  exclamations  of  surprise, 
pleasure,  admiration,  or  dissatisfaction,  called  up  by  the  objects 
which  engrossed  our  attention,  till  we  found  ourselves  alone 
with  our  dessert. 

When  I  thought  my  host  had  imbibed  a  sufficient  quantity 
of  wine,  I  once  more  renewed  my  attack.  I  had  tried  him 
before  upon  that  point  of  vanity  which  is  centred  in  power, 
and  political  consideration,  but  in  vain  ;  I  now  bethought  me 
of  another." 

"How  few  persons  there  are,"  said  I,  "capable  of  giving 
even  a  tolerable  dinner — how  many  capable  of  admiring  one 
worthy  of  estimation  !  I  could  imagine  no  greater  triumph  for 
the  ambitious  epicure  than  to  see  at  his  board  the  first  and 
most  honored  persons  of  the  State,  all  lost  in  wonder  at  the 
depth,  the  variety,  the  purity,  the  munificence  of  his  taste  ;  all 
forgetting,  in  the  extorted  respect  which  a  gratified  palate 
never  fails  to  produce,  the  more  visionary  schemes  and  projects 
which  usually  occupy  their  thoughts  :  to  find  those  whom  all 
England  are  soliciting  for  posts  and  power,  become,  in  their 
turn,  eager  and  craving  aspirants  for  places  at  his  table ;  to 
know  that  all  the  grand  movements  of  the  ministerial  body  are 
planned  and  agitated  over  the  inspirations  of  his  viands  and  the 
excitement  of  his  wine.  From  a  haunch  of  venison,  like  the 
one  of  which  we  have  partaken  to-day,  what  \ioble  and  sub- 
stantial measures  might  arise  !  From  a  saute"  de  foie,  what 
delicate  subtleties  of  finesse  might  have  their  origin  !  From  a 
ragout  &  la  financierc,  what  godlike  improvements  in  taxation  ! 
Oh,  could  such  a  lot  be  mine,  I  would  envy  neither  Napoleon 

for  the  goodness  of  his  fortune,  nor  S for  the  grandeur  of 

his  genius." 

Guloseton  laughed.  "  The  ardor  of  your  enthusiasm  blinds 
your  philosophy,  my  dear  Pelham  ;  like  Montesquieu,  the  live- 
liness of  your  fancy  often  makes  you  advance  paradoxes  which 


276  PELHAM  J 

the  consideration  of  your  judgment  would  afterwards  condemn. 
For  instance,  you  must  allow,  that  if  one  had  all  those  fine 
persons  at  one's  table,  one  would  be  forced  to  talk  more,  and 
consequently  to  eat  less  :  moreover,  you  would  either  be  ex- 
cited by  your  triumph,  oryou  would  not, — that  is  indisputable  ; 
if  you  are  not  excited,  you  have  the  bore  for  nothing  ;  if  you 
are  excited,  you  spoil  your  digestion  :  nothing  is  so  detri- 
mental to  the  stomach  as  the  feverish  inquietude  of  the  pas- 
sions. All  philosophies  recommend  calm  as  the  to  kalon  of 
their  code  ;  and  you  must  perceive,  that  if,  in  the  course  you 
advise,  one  has  occasional  opportunities  of  pride,  one  also  has 
those  of  mortification.  Mortification  !  terrible  word  ;  how 
many  apoplexies  have  arisen  from  its  source  !  No,  Pelham, 
away  with  ambition  ;  fill  your  glass,  and  learn,  at  last,  the  se- 
cret of  real  philosophy." 

"  Confound  the  man  !  "  was  my  mental  anathema.  "  Long 
life  to  the  Solomon  of  saute"s"  was  my  audible  exclamation. 

"There  is  something,"  resumed  Guloseton,  "  in  your  coun- 
tenance and  manner,  at  once  so  frank,  lively,  and  ingenuous, 
that  one  is  not  only  prepossessed  in  your  favor,  but  desirous 
of  your  friendship.  I  tell  you,  therefore,  in  confidence,  that 
nothing  more  amuses  me  than  to  see  the  courtship  I  receive 
from  each  party.  I  laugh  at  all  the  unwise  and  passionate 
contests  in  which  others  are  engaged,  and  I  would  as  soon 
think  of  entering  into  the  chivalry  of  Don  Quixote,  or  attack- 
ing the  visionary  enemies  of  the  Bedlamite,  as  of  taking  part  in 
the  fury  of  politicians.  At  present,  looking  afar  off  at  their 
delirium,  I  can  ridicule  it  ;  were  I  to  engage  in  it,  I  should  be 
hurt  by  it.  I  have  no  wish  to  become  the  weeping,  instead  of 
the  laughing,  philosopher.  I  sleep  well  now — I  have  no  desire 
to  sleep  ill.  I  eat  well — why  should  I  lose  my  appetite  ?  I 
am  undisturbed  and  unattacked  in  the  enjoyments  best  suited 
to  my  taste — for  what  purpose  should  I  be  hurried  into  the 
abuse  of  the  journalists  and  the  witticisms  of  the  pamphleteers  ? 
I  can  ask  those  Avhom  I  like  to  my  house — why  should  I  be 
forced  into  asking  those  whom  I  do  not  like  ?  In  fine,  my 
good  Pelham,  why  should  I  sour  my  temper  and  shorten  my 
life,  put  my  green  old  age  into  flannel  and  physic,  and  become, 
from  the  happiest  of  sages,  the  most  miserable  of  fools  ?  Am- 
bition reminds  me  of  what  Bacon  says  of  anger  :  '  It  is  like 
rain,  it  breaks  itself  upon  that  which  it  falls  on.'  Pelham,  my 
boy,  taste  the  Chateau  Margdt." 

However  hurt  my  vanity  might  be  in  having  so  ill  succeeded 
in  my  object,  I  could  not  help  smiling  with  satisfaction  at  my 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         277 

entertainer's  principles  of  wisdom.  My  diplomatic  honor, 
however,  was  concerned,  and  I  resolved  yet  to  gain  him.  If, 
hereafter,  I  succeeded,  it  was  by  a  very  different  method  than  I 
had  yet  taken  ;  meanwhile  I  departed  from  the  house  of  this 
modern  Apicius  with  a  new  insight  into  the  great  book  of  man- 
kind, and  a  new  conclusion  from  its  pages  :  viz.,  that  no  virtue 
can  make  so  perfect  a  philosopher  as  the  senses.  There  is  no 
content  like  that  of  the  epicure  ;  no  active  code  of  morals  so 
difficult  to  conquer  as  the  inertness  of  his  indolence  ;  he  is  the 
only  being  in  the  world  for  whom  the  present  has  a  supremer 
gratification  than  the  future. 

My  cabriolet  soon  whirled  me  to  Lady  Roseville's  door  ;  the 
first  person  I  saw  in  the  drawing-room  was  Ellen.  She  lifted  up 
her  eyes  with  that  familiar  sweetness  with  which  they  had  long 
since  learnt  to  welcome  me.  "  She  is  the  sister  of  a  murderer  !  " 
was  the  thought  that  curdled  my  blood,  and  I  bowed  distantly 
and  passed  on. 

I  met  Vincent.  He  seemed  dispirited  and  dejected.  He 
already  saw  how  ill  his  party  had  succeeded  ;  above  all,  he 
was  enraged  at  the  idea  of  the  person  assigned  by  rumor  to  fill 
the  place  he  had  intended  for  himself.  This  person  was  a  sort 
of  rival  to  his  lordship,  a  man  of  quaintness  and  quotation, 
with  as  much  learning  as  Vincent,  equal  wit,  and — but  that 
personage  is  still  in  office,  and  I  will  say  no  more,  lest  he 
should  think  I  flatter. 

To  our  subject.  It  has  probably  been  observed  that  Lord 
Vincent  had  indulged  less  of  late  in  that  peculiar  strain  of 
learned  humor  formerly  his  wont.  The  fact  is,  that  he  had 
been  playing  another  part  :•  he  wished  to  remove  from  his  char- 
acter that  appearance  of  literary  coxcombry  with  which  he  was 
accused.  He  knew  well  how  necessary,  in  the  game  of  politics, 
it  is  to  appear  no  less  a  man  of  the  world  than  of  books  ; 
and  though  he  was  not  averse  to  display  his  clerkship 
and  scholastic  information,  yet  he  endeavored  to  make 
them  seem  rather  valuable  for  their  weight  than  curious 
for  their  fashion.  How  few  there  are  in  the  world  who 
retain,  after  a  certain  age,  the  character  originally  natural 
to  them  !  We  all  get,  as  it  were,  a  second  skin  ;  the  little 
foibles,  propensities,  eccentricities,  we  first  indulged  through 
affectation,  conglomerate  and  encrust  till  the  artificiality 
grows  into  nature. 

"  Pelham,"  said  Vincent,  with  a  cold  smile,  "the  day  will 
be  yours  ;  the  battle  is  not  to  the  strong — the  Whigs  will 
triumph.  lFugerepudor,verumquc,fidesqite;  in  quorum  subiere 


278  PELHAM  J 

locum  fraudesque  doliqtie  insidiceque,  et  vis,  et  amor  sceleratus 
habendi.'"  * 

"  A  pretty  modest  quotation,"  said  I.  "  You  must  allow,  at 
least,  that  the  amor  sceleratus  habendi  was  also,  in  some  moder- 
ate degree,  shared  by  \htpudor  and  fides  which  characterize  your 
party  ;  otherwise  I  am  at  a  loss  how  to  account  for  the  tough 
struggle  against  us  we  have  lately  had  the  honor  of  resisting." 

"  Never  mind,"  replied  Vincent,  "I  will  not  refute  you.  It 
is  not  for  us,  the  defeated,  to  argue  with  you,  the  victors.  But 
pray  (continued  Vincent,  with  a  sneer  which  pleased  me  not) — 
pray,  among  this  windfall  of  the  Hesperian  fruit,  what  nice 
little  apple  will  fail  to  your  share?" 

"  My  good  Vincent,  don't  let  us  anticipate ;  if  any  such 
apple  should  come  into  my  lap  let  it  not  be  that  of  discord  be- 
tween us." 

"  Who  talks  of  discord  ?"  asked  Lady  Roseville,  joining  us. 

"  Lord  Vincent,"  said  I,  "  fancies  himself  the  celebrated 
fruit,  on  which  was  written,  detur  pulchriori^  to  be  given  to  the 
fairest.  Suffer  me,  therefore,  to  make  him  a  present  to  your 
ladyship." 

Vincent  muttered  something  which,  as  I  really  liked  and 
esteemed  him,  I  was  resolved  not  to  hear ;  accordingly  I  turned 
to  another  part  of  the  room  :  there  I  found  Lady  Dawton. 
She  was  a  tall,  handsome  woman,  as  proud  as  a  liberal's  wife 
ought  to  be.  She  received  me  with  unusual  graciousness,  and 
I  sat  myself  beside  her.  Three  dowagers,  and  an  old  beau  of 
the  old  school,  were  already  sharing  the  conversation  with  the 
haughty  Countess.  I  found  that  the  topic  was  society. 

"  No,"  said  the  old  beau,  who  was  entitled  Mr.  Clarendon, 
"  society  is  very  different  from  what  it  was  in  my  younger 
days.  You  remember,  Lady  Paulet,  those  delightful  parties  at 
D —  —  House  ?  Where  shall  we  ever  find  anything  like  them  ? 
Such  ease,  such  company — even  the  mixture  was  so  piquant ; 
if  one  chanced  to  sit  next  a  bourgeois  he  was  sure  to  be  dis- 
tinguished for  his  wit  or  talent.  People  were  not  tolerated,  as 
now,  merely  for  their  riches." 

"  True,"  cried  Lady  Dawton,  "  it  is  the  introduction  of  low 
persons,  without  any  single  pretension,  which  spoils  the  society 
of  the  present  day  !  "  And  the  three  dowagers  sighed  amen 
to  this  remark. 

"And  yet,"* said  I,  "  since  I  may  safely  say  so  here  without 
being  suspected  of  a  personality  in  the  shape  of  a  compliment, 

*  Shame,  Truth,  and  Faith  have  flown  ;    in   their   stead   creep  in  frauds,  craft,  snares, 
force,  and  the  rascally  love  of  gain. 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         279 

don't  you  think,  that  without  any  such  mixture  we  should  be 
very  indifferent  company  ?  Do  we  not  find  those  dinners  and 
soirees  the  pleasantest  where  we  see  a  minister  next  to  a  punster, 
a  poet  to  a  prince,  and  a  coxcomb  like  me  next  to  a  beauty 
like  Lady  Dawton  ?  The  more  variety  there  is  in  the  conver- 
sation, the  more  agreeable  it  becomes  !  " 

"  Very  just,"  answered  Mr.  Clarendon  ;  "  but  it  is  precisely 
because  I  wish  for  that  variety  that  I  dislike  a  miscellaneous 
society.  If  one  does  not  know  the  person  beside  whom  one 
has  the  happiness  of  sitting,  what  possible  subject  can  one 
broach  with  any  prudence  ?  I  put  politics  aside,  because, 
thanks  to  party  spirit,  we  rarely  meet  those  we  are  strongly 
opposed  to  ;  but  if  we  sneer  at  the  Methodists,  our  neighbor 
may  be  a  saint ;  if  we  abuse  a  new  book,  he  may  have  written 
it  ;  if  we  observe  that  the  tone  of  the  piano-forte  is  bad,  his 
father  may  have  made  it  ;  if  we  complain  of  the  uncertainty  of 
the  commercial  interest,  his  uncle  may  have  been  gazetted  last 
week.  I  name  no  exaggerated  instances  ;  on  the  contrary,  I 
refer  these  general  remarks  to  particular  individuals,  whom  all 
of  us  have  probably  met.  Thus,  you  see,  that  a  variety  of 
topics  is  proscribed  in  a  mixed  company,  because  some  one  or 
other  of  them  will  be  certain  to  offend." 

Perceiving  that  we  listened  to  him  with  attention,  Mr.  Claren- 
don continued  :  "  Nor  is  this  more  than  a  minor  objection  to 
the  great  mixture  prevalent  amongst  us  :  a  more  important 
one  may  be  found  in  the  universal  imitation  it  produces.  The 
influx  of  common  persons  being  once  permitted,  certain  sets 
recede,  as  if  were,  from  the  contamination,  and  contract  into 
very  diminished  coteries.  Living  familiarly  solely  amongst 
themselves,  however  they  may  be  forced  into  visiting  promis- 
cuously, they  imbibe  certain  manners,  certain  peculiarities  in 
mode  and  words,  even  in  an  accent  or  a  pronunciation,  which 
are  confined  to  themselves :  and  whatever  differs  from  these 
little  eccentricities  they  are  apt  to  condemn  as  vulgar  and 
suburban.  Now,  the  fastidiousness  of  these  sets  making  them 
difficult  of  intimate  access,  even  to  many  of  their  superiors  in 
actual  rank,  those  very  superiors,  by  a  natural  feeling  in  human 
nature,  of  prizing  what  is  rare,  even  if  it  is  worthless,  are  the 
first  to  solicit  their  acquaintance  :  and,  as  a  sign  that  they  enjoy 
it,  to  imitate  those  peculiarities  which  are  the  especial  hiero- 
glyphics of  this  sacred  few.  The  lower  grades  catch  the  con- 
tagion, and  imitate  those  they  imagine  most  likely  to  know  the 
essentials  of  the  mode  ;  and  thus  manners  unnatural  to  all  are 
transmitted  second-hand,  third-hand,  fourth-hand,  till  they  are 


280  PELHAM  ; 

ultimately  filtered  into  something  worse  than  no  manners  at 
all.  Hence,  you  perceive  all  people  timid,  stiff,  unnatural,  and 
ill  at  ease  ;  they  are  dressed  up  in  a  garb  which  does  not  fit 
them,  to  which  they  have  never  been  accustomed,  and  are  as 
little  at  home  as  the  wild  Indian  in  the  boots  and  garments  of 
the  more  civilized  European." 

"And  hence,"  said  I,  "springs  that  universal  vulgarity  of 
idea,  as  well  as  manner,  which  pervades  all  society,  for  nothing 
is  so  plebeian  as  imitation." 

"A  very  evident  truism  !  "  said  Clarendon.  "What  I  lament 
most,  is  the  injudicious  method  certain  persons  took  to  change 
this  order  of  things,  and  diminish  the  de'sagremens  of  the  mix- 
ture we  speak  of.  I  remember  well,  when  Almack's  was  first 
set  up,  the  intention  was  to  keep  away  the  rich  rdturiers  from  a 
place  the  tone  of  which  was  also  intended  to  be  contrary  to  their 
own.  For  this  purpose  the  patronesses  were  instituted,  the  price 
of  admission  made  extremely  low,  and  all  ostentatious  refresh- 
ments discarded  ;  it  was  an  admirable  institution  for  the  inter- 
ests of  the  little  oligarchy  who  ruled  it,  but  it  has  only  increased 
the  general  imitation  and  vulgarity.  Perhaps  the  records  of 
that  institution  contain  things  more  disgraceful  to  the  aristoc- 
racy of  England  than  the  whole  history  of  Europe  can  furnish. 
And  ho\v  could  the  Messieurs  et  Mesdames  Jourdains  help  fol- 
lowing the  servile  and  debasing  example  of  Monseigneur  le 
Due  et  Pair  ?  " 

"  How  strange  it  is,"  said  one  of  the  dowagers,  "  that  of  all 
the  novels  on  society  with  which  we  are  annually  inundated, 
there  is  scarcely  one  which  gives  even  a  tolerable  description 
of  it ! " 

"'Not  strange,"  said  Clarendon,  with  a  formal  smile,  "if  your 
ladyship  will  condescend  to  reflect.  Most  of  the  writers  upon 
our  little  great  world  have  seen  nothing  of  it ;  at  most,  they 
have  been  occasionally  admitted  into  the  routs  of  the  B's  and 
C's  of  the  second,  or  rather  the  third  set.  A  very  few  are,  it  is 
true,  gentlemen  ;  but  gentlemen,  who  are  not  writers,  are  as 
bad  as  writers  who  are  not  gentlemen.  In  one  work  which, 
since  it  is  popular,  I  will  not  name,  there  is  a  stiffness  and 
stiltedness  in  the  dialogue  and  descriptions  perfectly  ridicu- 
lous. The  author  makes  his  countesses  always  talking  of  their 
family,  and  his  earls  always  quoting  the  peerage.  There  is  as 
much  fuss  about  state,  and  dignity,  and  pride,  as  if  the  greatest 
amongst  us  were  not  far  too  busy  with  the  petty  affairs  of  the 
world  to  have  time  for  such  lofty  vanities.  There  is  only  one 
rule  necessary  for  a  clever  writer  who  wishes  to  delineate  the 


OR,    ADVENTURES  OF    A    GENTLEMAN.  281 

beau  monde.  It  is  this  :  let  him  consider  that  '  dukes,  and 
lords,  and  noble  princes,'  eat.  drink,  talk,  move,  exactly  the 
same  as  any  other  class  of  civilized  people  ;  nay,  the  very  sub- 
jects in  conversation  are,  for  the  most  part,  the  same  in  all  sets, 
only,  perhaps,  they  are  somewhat  more  familiarly  and  easily 
treated  with  us  than  among  the  lower  orders,  who  fancy  rank 
is  distinguished  by  pomposity,  and  that  state  affairs  are  dis- 
cussed with  the  solemnity  of  a  tragedy  ;  that  we  are  always  my 
lording  and  my  ladying  each  other ;  that  we  ridicule  common- 
ers, and  curl  our  hair  with  Debrett's  Peerage." 

We  all  laughed  at  this  speech,  the  truth  of  which  we  readily 
acknowledged. 

"  Nothing,"  said  Lady  Dawton,  "  amuses  me  more  than  to 
see  the  great  distinction  which  novel-writers  make  between  the 
titled  and  the  untitled  ;  they  seem  to  be  perfectly  unaware  that 
a  commoner  of  ancient  family  and  large  fortune  is  very  often 
of  far  more  real  rank  and  estimation,  and  even  weight,  in  what 
they  are  pleased  to  term  fas/iivn,  than  many  of  the  members  of 
the  Upper  House.  And  what  amuses  me  as  much,  is  the  no 
distinction  they  make  between  all  people  who  have  titles. 

Lord  A ,  the  little  baron,  is  exactly  the  same  as  Lord 

Z ,  the  great  marquess,  equally  haughty  and  equally  im- 
portant." 

"  Mais,  mon  Dieu"  said  a  little  French  count,  who  had  just 
joined  us  ;  "  how  is  it  that  you  can  expect  to  find  a  description 
of  society  entertaining,  when  the  society  itself  is  so  dull?  The 
closer  the  copy,  the  more  tiresome  it  must  be.  Your  manner, 
pour  vous  amuser,  consists  in  standing  on  a  crowded  staircase, 
and  complaining  that  you  are  terribly  bored.  L'on  s'accoutume 
difficilement  a  une  vie  qui  se  passe  sur  Vescalier" 

"  It  is  very  true,"  said  Clarendon  ;  "  we  cannot  defend  our- 
selves. We  are  a  very  sensible,  thinking,  brave,  sagacious, 
generous,  industrious,  noble-minded  people  ;  but  it  must  be 
confessed  that  we  are  terrible  bores  to  ourselves  and  all  the  rest 
of  the  world.  Lady  Paulet,  if  you  are  going  so  soon,  honor  me 
by  accepting  my  arm." 

"  You  should  say  your  hand"  said  the  Frenchman. 

"  Pardon  me,"  answered  the  gallant  old  beau  ;  "  I  say  with 
your  brave  countryman  when  he  lost  his  legs  in  battle,  and  was 
asked  by  a  lady,  like  the  one  who  now  leans  on  me,  whether 
he  would  not  sooner  have  lost  his  arms  ?  '  No,  madam,'  said 
he  (and  this,  Monsieur  le  Comte,  is  the  answer  I  give  to  your 
rebuke),  '  I  want  my  hands  to  guard  my  heart.'" 

Finding  our  little  knot  was  now  broken  up,  I  went  into  another 


282  PELHAM  ; 

part  of  the  room,  and  joined  Vincent,  Lady  Roseville,  Ellen,  and 
one  or  two  other  persons  who  were  assembled  round  a  table 
covered  with  books  and  prints.  Ellen  was  sitting  on  one  side 
of  Lady  Roseville ;  there  was  a  vacant  chair  next  her,  but  I 
avoided  it,  and  seated  myself  on  the  other  side  of  Lady  Rose- 
ville. 

"  Pray,  Miss  Glanville,"  said  Lord  Vincent,  taking  up  a  thin 
volume,  "do  you  greatly  admire  the  poems  of  this  lady?" 

"What,  Mrs.  Hemans  ?"  answered  Ellen.  "I  am  more  en- 
chanted with  her  poetry  than  I  can  express :  if  that  is  '  The 
Forest  Sanctuary '  which  you  have  taken  up,  I  am  sure  you 
will  bear  me  out  in  my  admiration." 

Vincent  turned  over  the  leaves  with  the  quiet  cynicism  of 
manner  habitual  to  him  ;  but  his  countenance  grew  animated 
after  he  had  read  two  pages.  "  This  is,  indeed,  beautiful," 
said  he,  "  really  and  genuinely  beautiful.  How  singular  that 
such  a  work  should  not  be  more  known  !  I  never  met  with 
it  before.  But  whose  pencil  marks  are  these  ?  " 

"  Mine,  I  believe,"  said  Ellen  modestly. 

And  Lady.  RoseviDe  turned  the  conversation  upon  Lord 
Byron. 

"  I  must  confess,  for  my  part,"  said  Lord  Edward  Neville 
(an  author  of  some  celebrity  and  more  merit),  "  that  I  am  ex- 
ceedingly weary  of  those  doleful  ditties  with  which  we  have 
been  favored  for  so  many  years.  No  sooner  had  Lord  Byron 
declared  himself  unhappy,  than  every  young  gentleman  with  a 
pale  face  and  dark  hair  thought  himself  justified  in  frowning 
in  the  glass  and  writing  Odes  to  Despair.  All  persons  who 
could  scribble  two  lines  were  sure  to  make  them  into  rhymes 
of  '  blight '  and  '  night.'  Never  was  there  so  grand  a  penchant 
for  the  triste." 

"It  would  be  interesting  enough,"  observed  Vincent,  "  to 
trace  the  origin  of  this  melancholy  mania.  People  are  wrong 
to  attribute  it  to  poor  Lord  Byron — it  certainly  came  from 
Germany  ;  perhaps  Werter  was  the  first  hero  of  that  school." 

"  There  seems,"  said  I,  "  an  unaccountable  prepossession 
among  all  persons  to  imagine  that  whatever  seems  gloomy 
must  be  profound,  and  whatever  is  cheerful  must  be  shal- 
low. They  have  put  poor  Philosophy  into  deep  mourning,  and 
given  her  a  coffin  for  a  writing-desk,  and  a  skull  for  an  ink- 
stand." 

"  Oh,"  cried  Vincent,  "  I  remember  some  lines  so  applicable 
to  your  remark,  that  I  must  forthwith  interrupt  you,  in  order 
to  introduce  them.  Madame  do  Stael  said,  in  one  of  her 


OR,  ADVENTURES   OF    A    GENTLEMAN.  283 

works,  that  melancholy  was  a  source  of  perfection.     Listen 
now  to  my  author  : 

'  Une  ffmrae  nous  dit,  et  nousprouve  en  effet, 
Qu'avant  quelques  mille  ans  I'homme  sera  parfait, 
Qu'il  devra  cet  etat  a  la  mttancolie. 
On  sail  que  la  tristesse  annonce  le  g^nie; 
Nous  avons  deja  fait  des  progres  etonnans  ; 
Que  de  tristes  ecrits — que  de  tristes  romans  ! 
Des  plus  noires  horreurs  nous  sommes  idolatres, 
Et  la  melancolie  a  gagne  nos  theatres.'  "  * 

"  What  !  "  cried  I,  "  are  you  so  well  acquainted  with  my 
favorite  book  ? " 

"  Yours  !  "  exclaimed  Vincent.  "  Gods,  what  a  sympathy  ;  f 
it  is  long  been  my  most  familiar  acquaintance  ;  but — 

'  Tell  us  what  hath  chanced  to-day, 
That  Caesar  looks  so  sad  ?  '  " 

My  eye  followed  Vincent's  to  acertain  the  meaning  of  this 
question,  and  rested  upon  Glanville,  who  had  that  moment 
entered  the  room.  I  might  have  known  that  he  was  expected, 
by  Lady  Roseville's  abstraction,  the  restlessness  with  which 
she  started  at  times  from  her  seat,  and  as  instantly  resumed 
it  ;  and  the  fond  expecting  looks  towards  the  door,  every  time 
it  shut  or  opened,  which  denote  so  strongly  the  absent  and 
dreaming  heart  of  the  woman  who  loves. 

Glanville  seemed  paler  than  usual,  and  perhaps  even  sadder  ; 
but  he  was  less  distrait  and  abstracted  ;  no  sooner  did  he  see, 
than  he  approached  me,  and  extended  his  hand  with  great 
cordiality.  His  hand  !  thought  I,  and  I  could  not  bring  my- 
self to  accept  it ;  I  merely  addressed  him  in  the  commonplace 
salutation.  He  looked  hard  and  inquisitively  at  me,  and  then 
turned  abruptly  away.  Lady  Roseville  had  risen  from  her 
chair — her  eyes  followed  him.  He  had  thrown  himself  on  a 
settee  near  the  window.  She  went  up  to  him,  and  sat  herself 
by  his  side.  I  turned — my  face  burned  ;  my  heart  beat — I 
was  now  next  to  Ellen  Glanville  ;  she  was  looking  down, 
apparently  employed  with  some  engravings,  but  I  thought  her 
hand  trembled. 

There  was  a  pause.     Vincent  was  talking  with  the  other 

*  A  women  tells  us,  and  in  fact  she  proves, 
That  Man,  though  slowly,  to  perfection  moves; 
But  to  be  perfect,  fiist  we  must  be  sad  ; 
Genius,  we  know,  is  melancholy  mad. 
Already  Time  our  startling  progress  hails  ; 
What  cheerless  essays  !     What  disastrous  tales  ! 
Horror  has  grown  the  amusement  of  the  age. 
And  Mirth  despairing  yawns,  and  (lies  the  stage, 
t  La  Gastronomic,  Poenie,  par  J.  Berchoux. 


284  PELHAM  ; 

occupiers  of  the  table  :  a  woman,  at  such  times,  is  always  the 
first  to  speak.  "  We  have  not  seen  you,  Mr.  Pelham,"  said 
Ellen,  "  since  your  return  to  town." 

"  I  have  been  very  ill,"  I  answered,  and  I  felt  my  voice 
falter.  Ellen  looked  up  anxiously  at  my  face  ;  I  could  not 
brook  those  large,  deep,  tender  eyes,  and  it  now  became  my 
turn  to  occupy  myself  with  the  prints. 

"  You  do  look  pale,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice.  I  did  not 
trust  myself  with  a  further  remark — dissimulator  as  I  was  to 
others,  I  was  like  a  guilty  child  before  the  woman  I  loved. 
There  was  another  pause  ;  at  last  Ellen  said  :  "  How  do  you 
think  my  brother  looks  ?  " 

I  started  ;  yes,  he  was  her  brother,  and  I  was  once  more 
myself  at  that  thought.  I  answered  so  coldly,  and  almost 
haughtily,  that  Ellen  colored,  and  said  with  some  dignity  that 
she  should  join  Lady  Roseville.  I  bowed  slightly,  and  she 
withdrew  to  the  Countess.  I  seized  my  hat  and  departed,  but 
not  utterly  alone  ;  I  had  managed  to  secrete  the  book  which 
Ellen'  s  hand  had  marked  :  through  many  a  bitter  day  and 
sleepless  night  that  book  has  been  my  only  companion  :  I 
have  it  before  me  now  ;  and  it  is  open  at  a  page  which  is  yet 
blistered  with  the  traces  of  former  tears  ! 


CHAPTER  LXVIII. 

"Our  mistress  is  a  little  given  to  philosophy;  what  disputations  shall 
we  have  here  by  and  by  ?  " — GIL  BLAS. 

IT  was  now  but  seldom  that  I  met  Ellen,  for  I  went  little 
into  general  society,  and  grew  every  day  more  engrossed  in 
political  affairs.  Sometimes,  however,  when,  wearied  of  myself 
and  my  graver  occupations,  I  yielded  to  my  mother's  solicita- 
tions, and  went  to  one  of  the  nightly  haunts  of  the  goddess 
we  term  Pleasure,  and  the  Greeks  Moria,  the  game  of  dissipa- 
tion (to  use  a  Spanish  proverb)  shuffled  us  together.  It  was 
then  that  I  had  the  most  difficult  task  of  my  life  to  learn  and 
to  perform  ;  to  check  the  lip,  the  eye,  the  soul ;  to  heap  curb 
on  curb,  upon  the  gushings  of  the  heart,  which  daily  and 
hourly  yearned  to  overflow ;  and  to  feel,  that  while  the  mighty 
and  restless  tides  of  passion  were  thus  fettered  and  restrained, 
all  within  was  a  parched  and  arid  wilderness,  that  wasted  itself, 
for  want  of  very  moisture,  away.  Yet  there  was  something 
grateful  in  the  sadness  with  which  I  watched  her  form  in  the 
dance,  or  listened  to  her  voice  in  the  song  ;  and  I  felt  soothed, 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          285 

and  even  happy,  when  my  fancy  flattered  itself  that  her  step 
never  now  seemed  so  light  as  it  was  wont  to  be  when  in  har- 
mony with  mine,  nor  the  songs  that  pleased  her  most  so  gay  as 
those  that  were  formerly  her  choice. 

Distant  and  unobserved,  I  loved  to  feed  my  eyes  upon  her 
pale  and  downcast  cheek  ;  to  note  the  abstraction  that  came 
over  her  at  moments,  even  when  her  glance  seemed  brightest, 
and  her  lip  most  fluent ;  and  to  know,  that  while  a  fearful 
mystery  might  forever  forbid  the  union  of  our  hands,  there  was 
an  invisible,  but  electric,  chain,  which  connected  the  sympa- 
thies of  our  hearts. 

Ah  !  why  is  it,  that  the  noblest  of  our  passions  should  be 
also  the  most  selfish  ?  That  while  we  would  make  all  earthly 
sacrifice  for  the  one  we  love,  we  are  perpetually  demanding  a 
sacrifice  in  return  ;  that  if  we  cannot  have  the  rapture  of 
blessing,  we  find  a  consolation  in  the  power  to  afflict ;  and  that 
we  acknowledge,  while  we  reprobate,  the  maxim  of  the  sage  : 
"  L'on  veiit  faire  tout  le  bonheur,  ou,  si  cela  ne  se  peut  ainsi,  tout  le 
malhtur  de  ce  qu'on  aime."  * 

The  beauty  of  Ellen  was  not  of  that  nature  which  rests 
solely  upon  the  freshness  of  youth,  nor  even  the  magic  of 
expression ;  it  was  as  faultless  as  it  was  dazzling  ;  no  one 
could  deny  its  excess  or  its  perfection  ;  her  praises  came  con- 
stantly to  my  ear  into  whatever  society  I  went.  Say  what  we 
will  of  the  power  of  love,  it  borrows  greatly  from  opinion  : 
pride,  above  all  things,  sanctions  and  strengthens  affection. 
When  all  voices  were  united  to  panegyrize  her  beauty  ;  when 
I  knew,  that  the  powers  of  her  wit,  the  charms  of  her  conver- 
sation, the  accurate  judgment,  united  to  the  sparkling  imagina- 
tion, were  even  more  remarkable  characteristics  of  her  mind, 
than  loveliness  of  her  person,  I  could  not  but  feel  my  ambition, 
as  well  as  my  tenderness,  excited  :  I  dwelt  with  a  double  inten- 
sity on  my  choice,  and  with  a  tenfold  bitterness  on  the  obstacle 
which  forbade  me  to  indulge  it. 

Yet  there  was  one  circumstance,  to  which,  in  spite  of  all  the 
evidence  against  Reginald,  my  mind  still  fondly  and  eagerly 
clung.  In  searching  the  pockets  of  the  unfortunate  Tyrrell 
the  money  he  had  mentioned  to  me  as  being  in  his  possession 
could  not  be  discovered.  Had  Glanville  been  the  murderer, 
at  all  events  he  could  not  have  been  the  robber.  It  was  true 
that  in  the  death  scuffle,  which  in  all  probability  took  place,  the 
money  might  have  fallen  from  the  person  of  the  deceased,  either 

*  One  wishf-s  fo  make  all  the  happiness,  or,  if  that  is  forbidden,  all  the  unhappiness 
of  the  being  we  love. 


286  PELHAM  , 

among  the  long  grass  which  grew  rankly  and  luxuriantly  around, 
or  in  the  sullen  and  slimy  pool,  close  to  which  the  murder  was 
perpetrated  ;  it  was  also  possible  that  Thornton,  knowing  that 
the  deceased  had  so  large  a  sum  about  him,  and  not  being 
aware  that  the  circumstance  had  been  communicated  to  me  or 
any  one  else,  might  not  have  been  able  (when  he  and  Dawson 
first  went  to  the  spot)  to  resist  so  great  a  temptation.  How- 
ever, there  was  a  slight  crevice  in  this  fact  for  a  sunbeam  of 
hope  to  enter,  and  I  was  too  sanguine,  by  habitual  tempera- 
ment and  present  passion,  not  to  turn  towards  it  from  the  gen- 
eral darkness  of  my  thoughts. 

With  Glanville  I  was  often  brought  into  immediate  contact. 
Both  united  in  the  same  party,  and  engaged  in  concerting  the 
same  measures,  we  frequently  met  in  public,  and  sometimes 
even  alone.  However,  I  was  invariably  cold  and  distant,  and 
Glanville  confirmed  rather  than  diminished  my  suspicions,  by 
making  no  commentary  on  my  behavior,  and  imitating  it  in  the 
indifference  of  his  own.  Yet  it  was  with  a  painful  and  aching 
heart  that  I  marked  in  his  emaciated  form  and  sunken  cheek 
the  gradual  but  certain  progress  of  disease  and  death  ;  and 
while  all  England  rang  with  the  renown  of  the  young,  but  almost 
unrivalled,  orator,  and  both  parties  united  in  anticipating  the 
certainty  and  brilliancy  of  his  success,  I  felt  how  improbable 
it  was  that,  even  if  his  crime  escaped  the  unceasing  vigilance 
of  justice,  this  living  world  would  long  possess  any  traces  of 
his  genius  but  the  remembrance  of  his  name.  There  was  some- 
thing in  his  love  of  letters,  his  habits  of  luxury  and  expense, 
the  energy  of  his  mind,  the  solitude,  the  darkness,  the  hauteur, 
the  reserve  of  his  manners  and  life,  which  reminded  me  of  the 
German  Wallenstein  ;  nor  was  he  altogether  without  the  super- 
stition of  that  evil,  but  extraordinary,  man.  It  is  true  that  he 
was  not  addicted  to  the  romantic  fables  of  astrology,  but  he 
was  an  earnest,  though  secret,  advocate  of  the  world  of  spirits. 
He  did  not  utterly  disbelieve  the  various  stories  of  their  return 
to  earth  and  their  visits  to  the  living  ;  and  it  would  have  been 
astonishing  to  me,  had  I  been  a  less  diligent  observer  of  human 
inconsistencies,  to  mark  a  mind,  otherwise  so  reasoning  and 
strong,  in  this  respect  so  credulous  and  weak  ;  and  to  witness 
its  reception  of  a  belief,  not  only  so  adverse  to  ordinary  reflec- 
tion, but  so  absolutely  contradictory  to  the  philosophy  it  pas- 
sionately cultivated,  and  the  principles  it  obstinately  espoused. 

One  evening  I,  Vincent,  and  Clarendon,  were  alone  at  Lady 
Roseville's,  when  Reginald  and  his  sister  entered.  I  rose  to 
depart ;  the  beautiful  Countess  would  not  suffer  it  ;  and  when 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          287 

I  looked  at  Ellen,  and  saw  her  blush  at  my  glance,  the  weak- 
ness of  my  heart  conquered,  and  I  remained. 

Our  conversation  turned  partly  upon  books,  and  principally 
on  the  science  du  coeur  et  du  mondey  for  Lady  Roseville  was  un 
peu  philosophe,  as  well  as  more  than  un peu  HMraire  ;  and  her 
house,  like  those  of  the  Du  Deffands  and  D'Epinays  of  the  old 
French  regime,  was  one  where  serious  subjects  were  cultivated, 
as  well  as  the  lighter  ones  ;  where  it  was  the  mode  to  treat  no 
less  upon  things  than  to  scandalize  persons  j  and  where  maxims 
on  men  and  reflections  on  manners  were  as  much  in  their  places, 
as  strictures  on  the  opera  and  invitations  to  balls. 

All  who  were  now  assembled  were  more  or  less  suited  to  one 
another ;  all  were  people  of  the  world,  and  yet  occasional 
students  of  the  closet  ;  but  all  had  a  different  method  of  ex- 
pressing their  learning  or  their  observations.  Clarendon  was 
dry,  formal,  shrewd,  and  possessed  of  the  suspicious  philoso- 
phy common  to  men  hackneyed  in  the  world.  Vincent 
relieved  his  learning  by  the  quotation  or  metaphor,  or  origin- 
ality of  some  sort,  with  which  it  was  expressed.  Lady  Rose- 
ville seldom  spoke  much,  but  when  she  did,  it  was  rather 
with  grace  than  solidity.  She  was  naturally  melancholy  and 
pensive,  and  her  observations  partook  of  the  colorings  of  her 
mind  ;  but  she  was  also  a  dame  de  la  cour,  accustomed  to  con- 
ceal, and  her  language  was  gay  and  trifling,  while  the  senti- 
ments it  clothed  were  pensive  and  sad. 

Ellen  Glanville  was  an  attentive  listener,  but  a  diffident 
speaker.  Though  her  knowledge  was  even  masculine  for  its 
variety  and  extent,  she  was  averse  from  displaying  it ;  the 
childish,  the  lively,  the  tender,  were  the  outward  traits  of  her 
character  ;  the  flowers  were  above,  but  the  mine  was  beneath  ; 
one  noted  the  beauty  of  the  first,  one  seldom  dreamt  of  the 
value  of  the  last. 

Glanville's  favorite  method  of  expressing  himself  was  terse 
and  sententious.  He  did  not  love  the  labor  of  detail  ;  he  con- 
veyed the  knowledge  of  years  in  an  axiom.  Sometimes  he 
was  fanciful,  sometimes  false  ;  but  generally  dark,  melancholy, 
and  bitter. 

As  for  me,  I  entered  more  into  conversation  at  Lady  Rose- 
ville's  than  I  usually  do  elsewhere  ;  being,  according  to  my 
favorite  philosophy,  gay  on  the  serious,  and  serious  on  the 
gay  ;  and,  perhaps,  this  is  a  juster  method  of  treating  the 
two  than  would  be  readily  imagined  ;  for  things  which  are 
usually  treated  with  importance  are,  for  the  most  part,  deserv- 
ing of  ridicule  ;  and  those  which  we  receive  as  trifes  swell 


288  PELHAM  ; 

themselves  into  a  consequence  we  little  dreamt  of  before  they 
depart. 

Vincent  took  up  a  volume  ;  it  was  Shelley's  Posthumous 
Poems.  "  How  fine,"  said  he,  "  some  of  these  are  ;  but  they 
are  fine  fragments  of  an  architecture  in  bad  taste  ;  they  are 
imperfect  in  themselves,  and  faulty  in  the  school  they  belonged 
to  ;  yet,  such  as  they  are,  the  master-hand  is  evident  upon 
them.  They  are  like  the  pictures  of  Paul  Veronese,  often 
offending  the  eye,  often  irritating  the  judgment,  but  breathing 
of  something  vast  and  lofty  ;  their  very  faults  are  majestic  ; 
this  age,  perhaps  no  other,  will  ever  do  them  justice — but  the 
disciples  of  future  schools  will  make  glorious  pillage  of  their 
remains.  The  writings  of  Shelley  would  furnish  matter  for  a 
hundred  volumes  :  they  are  an  admirable  museum  of  ill- 
arranged  curiosities ;  they  are  diamonds  awkwardly  set  ;  but 
one  of  them,  in  the  hands  of  a  skilful  jeweller,  would  be  in- 
estimable ;  and  the  poet  of  the  future  will  serve  him  as  Mer- 
cury did  the  tortoise  in  his  own  translation  from  Homer — 
make  him  'sing  sweetly  when  he's  dead  !  '  Their  lyres  will 
be  made  out  of  his  shell." 

"If  I  judge  rightly,"  said  Clarendon,  "  his  literary  faults 
were  these  :  he  was  too  learned  in  his  poetry,  and  too  poetical 
in  his  learning.  Learning  is  the  bane  of  a  poet.  Imagine  how 
beautiful  Petrarch  would  be  without  his  platonic  conceits  ; 
fancy  the  luxuriant  imagination  of  Cowley,  left  to  run  wild 
among  the  lofty  objects  of  nature,  not  the  minute  peculiarities 
of  art.  Even  Milton,  who  made  a  more  graceful  and  gorgeous 
use  of  learning  than,  perhaps,  any  other  poet,  would  have 
been  far  more  popular  if  he  had  been  more  familiar. 
Poetry  is  for  the  multitude,  erudition  for  the  few.  In 
proportion  as  you  mix  them,  erudition  will  gain  in  readers, 
and  poetry  lose." 

"True,"  said  Glanville ;  "and  thus  the  poetical,  among 
philosophers,  are  the  most  popular  of  their  time  ;  and  the  phil- 
osophical among  poets,  the  least  popular  of  theirs." 

"  Take  care,"  said  Vincent,  smiling,  "that  we  are  not  misled 
by  the  point  of  your  deduction  ;  the  remark  is  true,  but  with  a 
certain  reservation,  viz.,  that  the  philosophy  which  renders  a 
poet  less  popular  must  be  the  philosophy  of  learning,  not  of 
•wisdom.  Wherever  it  consists  in  the  knowledge  of  the  plainer 
springs  of  the  heart,  and  not  in  abstruse  inquiry  into  its  meta- 
physical and  hidden  subtleties,  it  necessarily  increases  the  pop- 
ularity of  the  poem  ;  because,  instead  of  being  limited  to  the 
few,  it  comes  home  to  every  one.  Thus,  it  is  the  philosophy 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         289 

of  Shakspeare  which  puts  him  into  every  one's  hands  and 
hearts,  while  that  of  Lucretius,  wonderful  poet  as  he  is,  makes 
us  often  throw  down  the  book  because  it  fatigues  us  with  the 
scholar.  Philosophy,  therefore,  only  sins  in  poetry,  when,  in 
the  severe  garb  of  learning,  it  becomes 'harsh  and  crabbed,' 
and  not '  musical  as  is  Apollo's  lute.'  " 

"Alas  !  "  said  I,  "how  much  more  difficult  than  of  yore  edu- 
cation is  become  :  formerly  it  had  only  one  object — to  acquire 
learning  ;  and  now,  we  have  not  only  to  acquire  it,  but  to 
know  what  to  do  with  it  when  we  have  ;  nay,  there  are  not  a 
few  cases  where  the  very  perfection  of  learning  will  be  to  appear 
ignorant." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Glanville,  "  the  very  perfection  of  wisdom 
may  consist  in  retaining  actual  ignorance.  Where  was  there 
ever  the  individual  who,  after  consuming  years,  life,  health,  in  the 
pursuit  of  science,  rested  satisfied  with  its  success,  or  rewarded 
by  its  triumph  ?  Common-sense  tells  us  that  the  best  method 
of  employing  life  is  to  enjoy  it.  Common-sense  tells  us,  also, 
the  ordinary  means  of  this  enjoyment  :  health,  competence, 
and  the  indulgence,  but  the  moderate  indulgence,  of  our  pas- 
sions. What  have  these  to  do  with  science?" 

"I  might  tell  you,"  replied  Vincent,  "that  I  myself  have 
been  no  idle  nor  inactive  seeker  after  the  hidden  treasures  of 
mind  ;  and  that,  from  my  own  experience,  I  could  speak  of 
pleasure,  pride,  complacency,  in  the  pursuit,  that  were  no  in- 
considerable augmenters  of  my  stock  of  enjoyment  ;  but  I  have 
the  candor  to  confess,  also,  that  1  have  known  disappointment, 
mortification,  despondency  of  mind,  and  infirmity  of  body, 
that  did  more  than  balance  the  account.  The  fact  is,  in  my 
opinion,  that  the  individual  is  a  sufferer  for  his  toils,  but  then 
the  mass  is  benefited  by  his  success.  It  is  we  who  reap,  in 
idle  gratification,  what  the  husbandman  has  sown  in  the  bitter- 
ness of  labor.  Genius  did  not  save  Milton  from  poverty  and 
blindness,  nor  Tasso  from  the  madhouse,  nor  Galileo  from  the 
Inquisition  ;  they  were  the  sufferers,  but  posterity  the  gainers. 
The  literary  empire  reverses  the  political  ;  it  is  not  the  many 
made  for  one,  it  is  the  one  made  for  many.  Wisdom  and 
Genius  must  have  their  martyrs  as  \vell  as  Religion,  and  with 
the  same  results,  viz.,  semen  ecclesia  est  sanguis  martyrorum. 
And  this  reflection  must  console  us  for  their  misfortunes,  for, 
perhaps,  it  was  sufficient  to  console  them.  In  the  midst  of 
the  most  affecting  passage  in  the  most  wonderful  work,  per- 
haps, ever  produced,  for  the  mixture  of  universal  thought 
with  individual  interest — I  mean  the  last  two  cantos  of  Childe 


2QO  PELHAM  ; 

Harold — the  poet  warms  from  himself  at  his  hopes  Of  being 
remembered 

'  In  his  line 
With  his  land's  language.' 

And  who  can  read  the  noble  and  heart-speaking  apology  of 
Algernon  Sydney,  without  entering  into  his  consolation  no  less 
than  his  misfortunes?  Speaking  of  the  law  being  turned  into  a 
snare  instead  of  a  protection,  and  instancing  its  uncertainty  and 
danger  in  the  times  of  Richard  the  Second,  he  says  :  '  God  only 
knows  what  will  be  the  issue  of  the  like  practices  in  these  our 
days ;  perhaps  he  will  in  his  mercy  speedily  visit  his  afflicted 
people  ;  /  die  in  the  faith  that  he  will  do  it,  though  I  know  not 
the  time  or  ways.1 " 

"  I .  love,"  said  Clarendon,  "  the  enthusiasm  which  places 
comfort  in  so  noble  a  source  ;  but  is  vanity,  think  you,  a  less 
powerful  agent  than  philanthropy?  Is  it  not  the  desire  of 
shining  before  men  that  prompts  us  to  whatever  may  effect  it  ? 
And  if  it  can  create,  can  it  not  also  support?  I  mean,  that  if 
you  allow  that  to  shine,  to  dazzle,  to  enjoy  praise,  is  no  ordi- 
nary incentive  to  the  commencement  of  great  works,  the  con- 
viction of  future  success  for  this  desire  becomes  no  inconsider- 
able reward.  Grant,  for  instance,  that  this  desire  produced 
the  '  Paradise  Lost,'  and  you  will  not  deny  that  it  might  also 
support  the  poet  through  his  misfortunes  Do  you  think  that 
he  thought  rather  of  the  pleasure  his  work  should  afford  to 
posterity,  than  of  the  praises  posterity  should  extend  to  his 
work?  Had  not  Cicero  left  us  such  frank  confessions  of  him- 
self, how  patriotic,  how  philanthropise  we  should  have  esteemed 
him  !  Now  we  know  both  his  motive  and  meed  was  vanity, 
may  we  not  extend  the  knowledge  of  human  nature  which  we 
have  gained  in  this  instance  by  applying  it  to  others?  For  my 
part,  I  should  be  loth  to  inquire  how  large  a  quantum  of  vanity 
mingled  with  the  haughty  patriotism  of  Sydney,  or  the  uncon- 
quered  soul  of  Cato." 

Glanville  bowed  his  head  in  approval. 

"But,"  observed  I  ironically,  "  why  be  so  uncharitable  to 
this  poor  and  persecuted  principle,  since  none  of  you  deny  the 
good  and  great  actions  it  effects  ;  why  stigmatize  vanity  as  a 
vice,  when  it  creates,  or,  at  least,  participates  in,  so  many  vir- 
tues? I  wonder  the  ancients  did  not  erect  the  choicest  of 
their  temples  to  its  worship?  As  for  me,  I  shall  henceforth 
only  speak  of  it  as  the  primum  mobile  of  whatever  we  venerate 
and  admire,  and  shall  think  it  the  highest  compliment  I  can 
pay  to  a  man,  to  tell  him  he  is  eminently  vain  !  " 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         29! 

"I  incline  to  your  opinion,"  cried  Vincent,  laughing.  "  The 
reason  we  dislike  vanity  in  others  is  because  it  is  perpetually 
hurting  our  own.  Of  all  passions  (if  for  the  moment  I  may  call 
it  such)  it  is  the  most  indiscreet ;  it  is  forever  blabbing  out  its 
own  secrets.  If  it  would  but  keep  its  counsel,  it  would  be  as 
graciously  received  in  society  as  any  other  well-dressed  and  well- 
bred  intruder  of  quality.  Its  garrulity  makes  it  despised.  But 
in  truth  it  must  be  clear  that  vanity  in  itself  is  neither  a  vice 
nor  a  virtue,  any  more  than  this  knife,  in  itself,  is  dangerous  or 
useful ;  the  person  who  employs  gives  it  its  qualities  :  thus, 
for  instance,  a  great  mind  desires  to  shine,  or  is  vain,  in  great 
actions ;  a  frivolous  one,  in  frivolities  ;  and  so  on  through  the 
varieties  of  the  human  intellect.  But  I  cannot  agree  with  Mr. 
Clarendon  that  my  admiration  of  Algernon  Sydney  (Cato  I 
never  did  admire)  would  be  at  all  lessened  by  the  discovery 
that  his  resistance  to  tyranny  in  a  great  measure  originated  in 
vanity,  or  that  the  same  vanity  consoled  him  when  he  fell  a 
victim  to  that  resistance  ;  for  what  does  it  prove  but  this,  that, 
among  the  various  feelings  of  his  soul,  indignation  at  op- 
pression (so  common  to  all  men),  enthusiasm  for  liberty  (so 
predominant  in  him),  the  love  of  benefiting  others,  the  noble 
pride  of  being,  in  death,  consistent  with  himself ;  among  all 
these  feelings,  among  a  crowd  of  others  equally  honorable  and 
pure,  there  was  also  one,  and  perhaps  no  inconsiderable  feel- 
ing, of  desire  that  his  life  and  death  should  be  hereafter  ap- 
preciated justly  ?  Contempt  of  fame  is  the  contempt  of  virtue. 
Never  consider  that  vanity  an  offence  which  limits  itself  to 
wishing  for  the  praise  of  good  men  for  good  actions  :  '  Next 
to  our  own  esteem,'  says  the  best  of  the  Roman  philosophers, 
'it  is  a  virtue  to  desire  the  esteem  of  others.'  " 

"  By  your  emphasis  on  the  word  esteem"  said  Lady  Rose- 
ville,  "  I  suppose  you  attach  some  particular  importance  to  the 
word  ? " 

"  I  do,"  answered  Vincent.  "  I  use  it  in  contradistinction 
to  admiration.  We  may  covet  general  admiration  for  a  bad 
action  (for  many  bad  actions  have  the  clinquant  which  passes 
for  real  gold),  but  one  can  expect  general  esteem  only  for  a  good 
one." 

"  From  this  distinction,"  said  Ellen  modestly,  "  may  we  not 
draw  an  inference,  which  will  greatly  help  us  in  our  considera- 
tion of  vanity  ;  may  we  not  deem  that  vanity  which  desires 
only  the  esteem  of  others  to  be  invariably  a  virtue,  and  that 
which  only  longs  for  admiration  to  be  frequently  a  vice  ?  " 

"  We  may  admit  your  inference,"  said  Vincent  ;  "  and  before 


2Q2  PELHAM  ; 

I  leave  this  question,  I  cannot  help  remarking  upon  the  folly 
of  the  superficial,  who  imagine,  by  studying  human  motives, 
that  philosophers  wish  to  depreciate  human  actions.  To  di- 
rect our  admiration  to  a  proper  point  is  surely  not  to  destroy 
it  ;  yet  how  angry  inconsiderate  enthusiasts  are,  when  we  assign 
real,  in  the  place  of  exaggerated,  feelings.  Thus  the  advocates 
for  the  doctrine  of  utility — the  most  benevolent,  because  the 
most  indulgent,  of  all  philosophies — are  branded  with  the  epi- 
thets of  selfish  and  interested  ;  decriers  of  moral  excellence, 
and  disbelievers  in  generous  actions.  Vice  has  no  friend  like 
the  prejudices  which  call  themselves  virtue.  Le pretexte  ordi- 
naire de  cenx  qui  font  le  malheur  des  autres  est  qu'ils  veulent  leur 
bien."  * 

My  eyes  were  accidentally  fixed  on  Glanville  as  Vincent 
ceased  ;  he  looked  up,  and  colored  faintly  as  he  met  my  look  ; 
but  he  did  not  withdraw  his  own  ;  keenly  and  steadily  we 
gazed  upon  each  other,  till  Ellen,  turning  round  suddenly,  re- 
marked the  unwonted  meaning  of  our  looks,  and  placed  her 
hand  in  her  brother's,  with  a  sort  of  fear. 

It  was  late  ;  he  rose  to  withdraw,  and  passing  me,  said  in  a 
low  tone,  "  A  little  while,  and  you  shall  know  all."  I  made  no 
answer;  he  left  the  room  with  Ellen. 

"  Lady  Roseville  has  had  but  a  dull  evening,  I  fear,  with  our 
stupid  saws  and  ancient  instances,"  said  Vincent.  The  eyes  of 
the  person  he  addressed  were  fixed  upon  the  door  ;  I  was 
standing  close  by  her,  and  as  the  words  struck  her  ear,  she 
turned  abruptly  ;  a  tear  fell  upon  my  hand — she  perceived  it, 
and  though  I  would  not  look  upon  her /low,  I  saw  that  her  very 
neck  blushed  ;  but  she,  like  me,  if  she  gave  way  to  feeling,  had 
learned  too  deep  a  lesson  from  the  world,  not  readily  to  resume 
her  self-command  ;  she  answered  Vincent  railingly,  upon  his 
bad  compliment  to  us,  and  received  our  adieus  with  all  her 
customary  grace,  and  more  than  her  customary  gayety. 

CHAPTER  LXIX. 

"  Ah  !  Sir,  had  I  but  bestowed  half  the  pains  in  learning  a  trade  that  I 
have  in  learning  to  be  a  scoundrel,  I  might  have  been  a  rich  man  at  this 
day  ;  but,  rogue  as  I  am.  still  I  may  be  your  friend,  and  that,  perhaps, 
when  you  least  expect  it. " —  Vicar  of  Wake  field. 

WHAT  with  the  anxiety  and  uncertainty  of  my  political  pros- 
pects, the  continued  whirlpool  in  which  I  lived,  and,  above 

*  The  ordinary  pretext  of  those  who  malce  the  misery  of  others  is,  that  they  wish  their 
good. 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          293 

all,  the  unpropitious  state  of  my  belle  passion,  my  health  gave 
way  ;  my  appetite  forsook  me,  my  sleep  failed  me — I  lost  my 
good  looks,  and  my  mother  declared  that  I  should  have  no 
chance  with  an  heiress  ;  all  these  circumstances  together  were 
not  without  their  weight.  So  I  set  out  one  morning  to  Hamp- 
ton Court,  for  the  benefit  of  the  country  air. 

It  is  by  no  means  an  unpleasant  thing  to  turn  one's  back 
upon  the  great  city  in  the  height  of  its  festivities.  Misanthropy 
is  a  charming  feeling  for  a  short  time,  and  one  inhales  the 
country,  and  animadverts  on  the  town,  with  the  most  melan- 
choly satisfaction  in  the  world.  I  sat  myself  down  at  a  pretty 
little  cottage,  a  mile  out  of  the  town.  From  the  window  of 
my  drawing-room  I  revelled  in  the  luxurious  contemplation  of 
three  pigs,  one  cow,  and  a  straw  yard  ;  and  I  could  get  to  the 
Thames  in  a  walk  of  five  minutes,  by  a  short  cut  through  a 
lime-kiln.  Such  pleasing  opportunities  of  enjoying  the  beauties 
of  nature  are  not  often  to  be  met  with  :  you  may  be  sure,  there- 
fore, that  I  made  the  most  of  them.  I  rose  early,  walked 
before  breakfast,  for  my  health,  and  came  back  with  a  most 
satisfactory  headache  for  my  pains.  I  read  for  just  three  hours, 
walked  for  two  more,  thought  over  Abernethy,  dyspepsia,  and 
blue  pills,  till  dinner ;  and  absolutely  forgot  Lord  Dawton, 
ambition,  Guloseton,  epicurism — ay,  all  but — of  course,  reader, 
you  know  whom  I  am  about  to  except — the  ladye  of  my  love. 

One  bright,  laughing  day  I  threw  down  my  book  an  hour 
sooner  than  usual,  and  sallied  out  with  a  lightness  of  foot  and 
exhilaration  of  spirit  to  which  I  had  long  been  a  stranger.  I 
had  just  sprung  over  a  stile  that  led  into  one  of  those  green 
shady  lanes  which  make  us  feel  that  the  old  poets  who  loved, 
and  lived  for  nature,  were  right  in  calling  our  island  "the  merry 
England,"  when  I  was  startled  by  a  short,  quick  bark,  on  one 
side  of  the  hedge.  I  turned  sharply  round  ;  and,  seated  upon 
the  sward,  was  a  man,  apparently  of  the  pedlar  profession  ;  a 
large  deal  box  was  lying  open  before  him  ;  a  few  articles  of 
linen  and  female  dress  were  scattered  round,  and  the  man  him- 
self appeared  earnestly  occupied  in  examining  the  deeper 
recesses  of  his  itinerant  warehouse.  A  small  black  terrier  flew 
towards  me  with  no  friendly  growl.  "  Down,"  said  I:  "all 
strangers  are  not  foes — though  the  English  generally  think  so." 

The  man  hastily  looked  up  ;  perhaps  he  was  struck  with  the 
quaintness  of  my  remonstrance  to  his  canine  companion  ;  for, 
touching  his  hat  civilly,  he  said  :  "The  dog,  sir,  is  very  quiet; 
he  only  means  to  give  me  the  alarm  by  giving  it  to  you ;  for 
dogs  seem  to  have  no  despicable  insight  into  human 


294  PELHAM  ; 

nature,  and  know  well  that  the  best  of  us  may  be  taken  by 
surprise." 

''  You  are  a  moralist,"  said  I,  not  a  little  astonished  in  my 
turn  by  such  an  address  from  such  a  person.  "  I  could  not 
have  expected  to  stumble  upon  a  philosopher  so  easily.  Have 
you  any  wares  in  your  box  likely  to  suit  me  ?  If  so,  I  should 
like  to  purchase  of  so  moralizing  a  vendor  ! " 

"  No,  sir,"  said  the  seeming  pedlar,  smiling,  and  yet  at  the 
same  time  hurrying  his  goods  into  his  box,  and  carefully  turning 
the  key  ;  "  No,  sir,  I  am  only  a  bearer  of  other  men's  goods ; 
my  morals  are  all  that  I  can  call  my  own,  and  those  I  will  sell 
you  at  your  own  price." 

"You  are  candid,  my  friend."  said  I,  "and  your  frankness, 
alone,  would  be  inestimable  in  this  age  of  deceit,  and  country 
of  hypocrisy." 

"Ah,  sir!"  said  my  new  acquaintance,  "I  see  already  that 
you  are  one  of  those  persons  who  look  to  the  dark  side  of 
things  ;  for  my  part,  I  think  the  present  age  the  best  that  ever 
existed,  and  our  own  country  the  most  virtuous  in  Europe." 

"  I  congratulate  you,  Mr.  Optimist,  on  your  opinions,"  quoth 
I  ;  "  but  your  observation  leads  me  to  suppose  that  you  are 
both  an  historian  and  a  traveller:  am  I  right  ?" 

"  Why,"  answered  the  box-bearer,  "/  have  dabbled  a  little 
in  books,  and  wandered  not  a  little  among  men.  I  am  just  re- 
turned from  Germany,  and  am  now  going  to  my  friends  in 
London.  I  am  charged  with  this  box  of  goods  :  Heaven  send 
me  the  luck  to  deliver  it  safe  ! " 

"  Amen,"  said  I;  "and  with  that  prayer  and  this  trifle,  I 
wish  you  a  good-morning." 

"  Thank  you  a  thousand  times,  sir,  for  both,"  replied  the 
man  ;  "  but  do  add  to  your  favors  by  informing  me  of  the  right 
road  to  the  town  of ." 

"  I  am  going  in  that  direction  myself ;  if  you  choose  to  ac- 
company me  part  of  the  way,  I  can  assure  your  not  missing  the 
rest." 

"Your  honor  is  too  good  !"  returned  he  of  the  box,  rising, 
and  slinging  his  fardel  across  him  ;  it  is  but  seldom  that  a  gentle- 
man of  your  rank  will  condescend  to  walk  three  paces  with  one 
of  mine.  You  smile,  sir ;  perhaps  you  think  I  should  not  class 
myself  among  gentlemen  ;  and  yet  I  have  as  good  a  right  to  the 
name  as  most  of  the  set.  I  belong  to  no  trade,  I  follow  no 
calling :  I  rove  where  I  list,  and  rest  where  I  please :  in  short, 
I  know  no  occupation  but  my  indolence,  and  no  law  but  my 
will.  Now,  sir,  may  I  not  call  myself  a  gentleman  ?" 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          295 

"  Of  a  surety  !  "  quoth  I.  "You  seem  to  me  to  hold  a  mid- 
dle rank  between  a  half-pay  captain  and  the  king  of  the 
gypsies." 

"You  have  hit  it,  sir,"  rejoined  my  companion,  with  a  slight 
laugh.  He  was  now  by  my  side,  and  as  we  walked  on  I  had 
leisure  more  minutely  to  examine  him.  He  was  a  middle-sized, 
and  rather  athletic  man,  apparently  about  the  age  of  thirty- 
eight.  He  was  attired  in  a  dark-blue  frock  coat,  which  was 
neither  shabby  nor  new,  but  ill-made,  and  much  too  large  and 
long  for  its  present  possessor ;  beneath  this  was  a  faded  velvet 
waistcoat,  that  had  formerly,  like  the  Persian"  ambassador's 
tunic,  "blushed  with  crimson  and  blazed  with  gold";  but 
which  might  now  have  been  advantageously  exchanged  in 
Monmouth  Street  for  the  lawful  sum  of  two  shillings  and  nine- 
pence  ;  under  this  was  an  inner  vest  of  the  cashmere  shawl 
pattern,  which  seemed  much  too  new  for  the  rest  of  the  dress. 
Though  his  shirt  was  of  a  very  unwashed  hue,  I  remarked  with 
some  suspicion  that  it  was  of  a  very  respectable  fineness  ;  and 
a  pin,  which  might  be  paste,  or  could  be  diamond,  peeped  below 
a  tattered  and  dingy  black  kid  stock,  like  a  gypsy's  eye  beneath 
her  hair. 

His  trousers  were  of  a  light  gray,  and  the  justice  of  Provi- 
dence, or  of  the  tailor,  avenged  itself  upon  them,  for  the  prodi- 
gal length  bestowed  upon  their  ill-assorted  companion,  the  coat; 
for  they  were  much  too  tight  for  the  muscular  limbs  they  con- 
cealed, and,  rising  far  above  the  ankle,  exhibited  the  whole  of 
a  thick  Wellington  boot,  which  was  the  very  picture  of  Italy 
upon  the  map. 

The  face  of  the  man  was  commonplace  and  ordinary  ;  one 
sees  a  hundred  such  every  day  in  Fleet  Street  or  on  the  'Change  ; 
the  features  were  small,  irregular,  and  somewhat  flat  ;  yet  when 
you  looked  twice  upon  the  countenance,  there  was  something 
marked  and  singular  in  the  expression,  which  fully  atoned  for 
the  commonness  of  the  features.  The  right  eye  turned  away 
from  the  left,  in  that  watchful  squint  which  seems  constructed 
on  the  same  considerate  plan  as  those  Irish  guns,  made  for 
shooting  round  a  corner  ;  his  eyebrows  were  large  and  shaggy, 
and  greatly  resembled  bramble  bushes,  in  which  his  fox-like  eyes 
had  taken  refuge.  Round  these  vulpine  retreats  was  a  labyrinth- 
ean  maze  of  those  wrinkles,  vulgarly  called  crow's-feet ;  deep,  in- 
tricate, and  intersected,  they  seemed  for  all  the  world  like  the 
web  of  a  Chancery  suit.  Singular  enough,  the  rest  of  the  coun- 
tenance was  perfectly  smooth  and  unindented  ;  even  the  lines 
from  the  nostril  to  the  corners  of  the  mouth,  usually  so  deeply 


290  PELHAM; 

traced  in  men  of  his  age,  were  scarcely  more  apparent  than  in 
a  boy  of  eighteen. 

His  smile  was  frank,  his  voice  clear  and  hearty,  his  address 
open,  and  much  superior  to  his  apparent  rank  of  life,  claiming 
somewhat  of  equality,  yet  conceding  a  great  deal  of  respect  ; 
but,  notwithstanding  all  these  certainly  favorable  points,  there 
was  a  sly  and  cunning  expression  in  his  perverse  and  vigilant 
eye,  and  all  the  wrinkled  demesnes  in  its  vicinity,  that  made 
me  distrust,  even  while  I  liked  my  companion  ;  perhaps,  in- 
deed, he  was  too  frank,  too  familiar,  too  de'gage,  to  be  quite 
natural.  Your  honest  men  may  soon  buy  reserve  by  experi- 
ence. Rogues  are  communicative  and  open,  because  confidence 
and  openness  cost  them  nothing.  To  finish  the  description  of 
my  new  acquaintance,  I  should  observe  that  there  was  some- 
thing in  his  countenance  which  struck  me  as  not  wholly  unfa- 
miliar ;  it  was  one  of  those  which  we  have  not,  in  all  human 
probability,  seen  before,  and  yet,  which  (perhaps  from  their 
very  commonness)  we  imagine  we  have  encountered  a  hundred 
times. 

We  walked  on  briskly,  notwithstanding  the  warmth  of  the 
day  ;  in  fact,  the  air  was  so  pure,  the  grass  so  green,  the  laugh- 
ing noonday  so  full  of  the  hum,  the  motion,  and  the  life  of  crea- 
tion, that  the  feeling  produced  was  rather  that  of  freshness  and 
invigoration,  than  of  languor  and  heat. 

"We  have  a  beautiful  country,  sir,"  said  my  hero  of  the  box. 
"It  is  like  walking  through  a  garden  after  the  more  sterile  and 
sullen  features  of  the  Continent.  A  pure  mind,  sir,  loves  the 
country  ;  for  my  part,  I  am  always  disposed  to  burst  out  in 
thanksgiving  to  Providence  when  I  behold  its  works,  and,  like 
the  valleys  in  the  psalm,  I  am  ready  to  laugh  and  sing." 

"  An  enthusiast,"  said  I,  "  as  well  as  a  philosopher !  perhaps 
(and  I  believed  it  likely),  I  have  the  honor  of  addressing  a  poet 
also." 

"  Why,  sir,"  replied  the  man,  "  I  have  made  verses  in  my 
life  ;  in  short,  there  is  little  I  have  not  done,  for  I  was  always 
a  lover  of  variety  ;  but,  perhaps,  your  honor  will  let  me  return 
the  suspicion.  Are  you  not  a  lover  of  the  muse  ?" 

"  I  cannot  say  that  I  am,"  said  I.  "  I  value  myself  only  on  my 
common-sense — the  very  antipodes  to  genius,  you  know,  ac- 
cording to  the  orthodox  belief." 

"Common-sense  !  "  repeated  my  companion,  with  a  singular 
and  meaning  smile,  and  at  winkle  with  his  left  eye.  "  Common- 
sense  !  Ah,  that  is  not  my  forte,  sir.  You,  I  dare  say,  are  one 
of  those  gentlemen  whom  it  is  very  difficult  to  take  in,  either 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          29? 

passively  or  actively,  by  appearance,  or  in  act  ?  For  my  part, 
I  have  been  a  dupe  all  my  life — a  child  might  cheat  me  !  I 
am  the  most  unsuspicious  person  in  the  world." 

"  Too  candid  by  half,"  thought  I.  "  The  man  is  certainly 
a  rascal ;  but  what  is  that  to  me  ?  I  shall  never  see  him  again  "  : 
and,  true  to  my  love  of  never  losing  sight  of  an  opportunity  of 
ascertaining  individual  character,  I  observed  that  I  thought 
such  an  acquaintance  very  valuable,  especially  if  he  were  in 
trade  ;  it  was  a  pity,  therefore,  for  my  sake,  that  my  companion 
had  informed  me  that  he  followed  no  calling. 

"  Why,  sir,"  said  he,  "I  am  occasionally  in  employment ;  my 
nominal  profession  is  that  of  a  broker.  I  buy  shawls  and  hand- 
kerchiefs of  poor  countesses,  and  retail  them  to  rich  plebeians. 
I  fit  up  new-married  couples  with  linen  at  a  more  moderate 
rate  than  the  shops,  and  procure  the  bridegroom  his  present  of 
jewels  at  forty  per  cent,  less  than  the  jewellers  :  nay,  1  am  as 
friendly  to  an  intrigue  as  a  marriage  ;  and  when  I  cannot  sell 
my  jewels,  I  will  my  good  offices.  A  gentleman  so  handsome 
as  your  honor  may  have  an  affair  upon  your  hands  :  if  so  you 
may  rely  upon  my  secrecy  and  zeal.  In  short,  I  am  an  inno- 
cent, good-natured  fellow,  who  does  harm  to  no  one  for  noth- 
ing, and  good  to  every  one  for  something." 

"I  admire  your  code,"  quoth  I,  " and  whenever  I  want  a 
mediator  between  Venus  and  myself,  will  employ  you.  Have 
you  always  followed  your  present  idle  profession,  or  were  you 
brought  up  to  any  other  ? " 

"  I  was  intended  for  a  silversmith,"  answered  my  friend, 
"  but  Providence  willed  it  otherwise  ;  they  taught  me  from 
childhood  to  repeat  the  Lord's  Prayer  ;  Heaven  heard  me,  and 
delivered  me  from  temptation — there  is,  indeed,  something  ter- 
ribly seducing  in  the  face  of  a  silver  spoon  !  " 

"  Well,"  said  I,  "you  are  the  honestest knave  I  ever  met,  and 
one  would  trust  you  with  one's  purse  for  the  ingenuousness 
with  which  you  own  you  would  steal  it.  Pray,  think  you  it  is 
probable  that  I  have  ever  had  the  happiness  to  meet  you  be- 
fore ?  I  cannot  help  fancying  so  ;  yet  as  I  have  never  been  in 
the  watchhouse,  or  the  Old  Bailey,  my  reason  tells  me  that  I 
must  be  mistaken." 

"  Not  at  all,  sir,"  returned  my  worthy  ;  "  I  remember  you  well, 
for  I  never  saw  a  face  like  yours  that  I  did  not  remember.  I 
I  had  the  honor  of  sipping  some  British  liquors  in  the  same 
room  with  yourself  one  evening  ;  you  were  then  in  company 
with  my  friend,  Mr.  Gordon." 

"  Ha  !  "  said  I,  "  I  thank  you  for  the  hint.     I  now  remember 


298  PELHAM  ; 

well,  by  the  same  token,  he  told  me  that  you  were  the  most  in- 
genious gentleman  in  England  ;  and  that  you  had  a  happy  pro- 
pensity of  mistaking  other  people's  possessions  for  your  own. 
I  congratulate  myself  upon  so  desirable  an  acquaintance." 

My  friend,  who  was  indeed  no  other  than  Mr.  Job  Jonson, 
smiled  with  his  usual  blandness,  and  made  me  a  low  bow  of 
acknowledgment  before  he  resumed  : 

"  No  doubt,  sir,  Mr.  Gordon  informed  you  right.  I  flatter 
myself  few  gentlemen  understand  better  than  myself  the  art  of 
appropriation  ;  though  I  say  it  who  should  not  say  it,  I  deserve 
the  reputation  I  have  acquired.  Sir,  I  have  always  had  ill-fortune 
to  struggle  against,  and  have  always  remedied  it  by  two  vir- 
tues— perseverance  and  ingenuity.  To  give  you  an  idea  of  my 
ill-fortune,  know  that  I  have  been  taken  up  twenty-three  times 
on  suspicion  ;  of  my  perseverance,  know  that  twenty-three 
times  I  have  been  taken  up  justly ;  and  of  my  ingenuity,  know 
that  I  have  been  twenty-three  times  let  off,  because  there  was 
not  a  tittle  of  legal  evidence  against  me  ! " 

"I  venerate  your  talents,  Mr.  Jonson,"  replied  I,  "if  by  the 
name  of  Jonson  it  pleaseth  you  to  be  called,  although,  like  the 
heathen  deities,  I  presume  that  you  have  many  titles,  whereof 
some  are  more  grateful  to  your  ears  than  others." 

"Nay,"  answered  the  man  of  two  virtues,  "I  am  never 
ashamed  of  my  name ;  indeed,  I  have  never  done  anything  to 
disgrace  me.  I  have  never  indulged  in  low  company,  nor 
profligate  debauchery ;  whatever  I  have  executed  by  way  ot 
profession,  has  been  done  in  a  superior  and  artist-like  manner ; 
not  in  the  rude,  bungling  fashion  of  other  adventurers.  More- 
over, I  have  always  had  a  taste  for  polite  literature,  and  went 
once  as  an  apprentice  to  a  publishing  bookseller,  for  the  sole 
purpose  of  reading  the  new  works  before  they  came  out.  In 
fine,  I  have  never  neglected  any  opportunity  of  improving  my 
mind  ;  and  the  worst  that  can  be  said  against  me  is,  that  I  have 
remembered  my  catechism,  and  taken  all  possible  pains 'to 
learn  and  labor  truly,  to  get  my  living,  and  do  my  duty  in  that 
state  of  life  to  which  it  has  pleased  Providence  to  call  me.' " 

"  I  have  often  heard,"  answered  I,  "  that  there  is  honor  among 
thieves ;  I  am  happy  to  learn  from  you  that  there  is  also  re- 
ligion :  your  baptismal  sponsors  must  be  proud  of  so  diligent 
a  godson." 

"  They  ought  to  be,  sir,"  replied  Mr.  Jonson,  "  for  I  gave 
them  the  first  specimens  of  my  address:  the  story  is  long,  but 
if  you  ever  give  me  an  opportunity,  1  will  relate  it." 

"Thank  you,"  said  I ;  "meanwhile  I  must  wish  you  a  good- 


Oft,   ADVENTURES   OF    A    GENTLEMAtf.  $$<) 

morning;  your  road  now  lies  to  the  right.  I  return  you  my 
best  thanks  for  your  condescension  in  accompanying  so  undis- 
tinguished an  individual  as  myself." 

"Oh,  never  mention  it,  your  honor,"  rejoined  Mr.  Jonson. 
"I  am  always  too  happy  to  walk  with  a  gentleman  of  your 
'common-sense.'  Farewell,  sir;  may  we  meet  again." 

So  saying,  Mr.  Jonson  struck  into  his  new  road,  and  we 
parted.* 

I  went  home  musing  on  my  adventure,  and  delighted  with 
my  adventurer.  When  I  was  about  three  paces  from  the  door 
of  my  home  I  was  accosted,  in  a  most  pitiful  tone,  by  a  poor 
old  beggar,  apparently  in  the  last  extreme  of  misery  and  dis- 
ease. Notwithstanding  my  political  economy,  I  was  moved 
into  almsgiving  by  a  spectacle  so  wretched.  I  put  my  hand 
into  my  pocket,  my  purse  was  gone ;  and,  on  searching  the 
other,  lo  —  my  handkerchief,  my  pocket-book,  and  a  gold 
locket,  which  had  belonged  to  Madame  d'Anville,  had  van- 
ished too. 

One  does  not  keep  company  with  men  of  two  virtues,  and 
receive  compliments  upon  one's  common-sense,  for  nothing  ! 

The  beggar  still  continued  to  importune  me. 

"  Give  him  some  food  and  half  a  crown,"  said  I  to  my  land- 
lady. Two  hours  afterwards,  she  came  up  to  me:  "Oh,  sir, 
my  silver  tea-pot — that  villain  the  beggar  !" 

A  light  flashed  upon  me  :  "Ah,  Mr.  Job  Jonson  !  Mr.  Job 
Jonson  !"  cried  I,  in  an  indescribable  rage  ;  "out  of  my  sight, 
woman  !  out  of  my  sight  !  "  I  stopped  short ;  my  speech 
failed  me.  Never  tell  me  that  shame  is  the  companion  of 
guilt — the  sinful  knave  is  never  so  ashamed  of  himself  as  is 
the  innocent  fool  who  suffers  by  him. 

CHAPTER  LXX. 

"  Then  must  I  plunge  again  into  the  crowd, 
And  follow  all  that  peace  disdains  to  seek." — BYRON. 

IN  the  quiet  of  my  retreat  I  remained  for  eight  days,  during 
which  time  I  never  looked  once  at  a  newspaper — imagine  how 
great  was  my  philosophy  !  On  the  ninth  I  began  to  think  it 
high  time  for  me  to  hear  from  Dawton  ;  and  finding  that  I  had 
eaten  two  rolls  for  breakfast,  and  that  certain  untimely  wrinkles 
began  to  assume  a  more  mitigated  appearance,  I  bethought  me 
once  more  of  the  "Beauties  of  Babylon." 

*  If  any  one  should  think  this  sketch  from  nature  exaggerated,  I  refer  him  to  the  "  Me- 
moirs of  James  Hardy  Vaux." 


360  PELHAM  j 

While  I  was  in  this  kindly  mood  towards  the  great  city  and 
its  inhabitants,  my  landlady  put  two  letters  in  my  hand — one 
was  from  my  mother,  the  other  from  Guloseton.  I  opened  the 
latter  first ;  it  ran  thus  : 

"  DEAR  PELHAM  : 

"I  was  very  sorry  to  hear  you  had  left  town — and  so  unex- 
pectedly too.  I  obtained  your  address  at  Mivart's,  and  hasten 
to  avail  myself  of  it.  Pray  come  to  town  immediately.  I  have 
received  some  chevreuil  as  a  present,  and  long  for  your  opinion  ; 
it  is  too  nice  to  keep:  for  all  things  nice  were  made  but  to 
grow  bad  when  nicest :  as  Moore,  I  believe,  says  of  flowers, 
substituting  sweet  and  fleetest,  for  bad  and  nicest ;  so,  you  see, 
you  must  come  without  loss  of  time. 

"  But  you,  my  friend — how  can  you  possibly  have  been 
spending  your  time  ?  I  was  kept  awake  all  last  night  by  think- 
ing what  you  could  have  for  dinner.  Fish  is  out  of  the 
question  in  the  country  ;  chickens  die  of  the  pip  everywhere 
but  in  London  ;  game  is  out  of  season  ;  it  is  impossible  to  send 
to  Giblett's  for  meat ;  it  is  equally  impossible  to  get  it  any- 
where else  ;  and  as  for  the  only  two  natural  productions  of  the 
country,  vegetables  and  eggs,  I  need  no  extraordinary  penetra- 
tion to  be  certain  that  your  cook  cannot  transmute  the  latter 
into  an  omelette  aux  hmtres,  nor  the  former  into  legumes  a  la 
crime. 

"Thus  you  see,  by  a  series  of  undeniable  demonstrations, 
you  must  absolutely  be  in  a  state  of  starvation.  At  this 
thought  the  tears  rush  into  my  eyes  :  for  Heaven's  sake,  for 
my  sake,  for  your  own  sake,  but,  above  all,  for  the  sake  of  the 
chevreuil,  hasten  to  London.  I  figure  you  to  myself  in  the  last 
stage  of  atrophy — airy  as  a  trifle,  thin  as  the  ghost  of  a  gray- 
hound. 

"I  need  say  no  more  on  the  subject.  I  may  rely  on  your 
own  discretion  to  procure  me  the  immediate  pleasure  of  your 
company.  Indeed,  were  I  to  dwell  longer  on  your  melancholy 
situation,  my  feelings  would  overcome  me.  Mais  revenons  a 
nos  moutons  (a  most  pertinent  phrase,  by  the  by — oh  !  the 
French  excel  us  in  everything,  from  the  paramount  science  of 
cookery  to  the  little  art  of  conversation). 

"You  must  tell  me  your  candid,  your  unbiassed,  your  de- 
liberate opinion  of  chevreuil.  For  my  part,  I  should  not  wonder 
at  the  mythology  of  the  northern  heathen  nations,  which  places 
hunting  among  the  chief  enjoyments  of  their  heaven,  were 
(hevreuil  the  object  of  their  chase;  but  nihil  est  omni  parte 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         36! 

beatum  ;  it  wants  fat,  my  dear  Pelham,  it  wants  fat :  nor  do  I 
see  how  to  remedy  this  defect ;  for  were  we  by  art  to  supply 
the  fat,  we  should  deprive  ourselves  of  t\\Q  flavor  bestowed  by 
nature ;  and  this,  my  dear  Pelham,  was  always  my  great  argu- 
ment for  liberty.  Cooped,  chained,  and  confined  in  cities,  and 
slavery,  all  things  lose  the  fresh  and  generous  tastes  which  it  is 
the  peculiar  blessing  of  freedom  and  the  country  to  afford. 

"  Tell  me,  my  friend,  what  has  been  the  late  subject  of  your 
reflections?  Afy  thoughts  have  dwelt  much  and  seriously  on 
the  'terra  incognita,'  the  undiscovered  tracts  in  the  pays 
culinaire,  which  the  profoundest  investigators  have  left  un- 
touched and  unexplored  in — veal.  But  more  of  this  hereafter  ; 
the  lightness  of  a  letter  is  ill  suited  to  the  depths  of  philosophi- 
cal research. 

"  Lord  Dawton  sounded  me  upon  my  votes  yesterday.  '  A 
thousand  pities,  too,'  said  he,  '  that  you  never  speak  in  the 
House  of  Lords.'  '  Orator  fit,'  said  I  ;  ' orators  are  siibject  to 
apoplexy.'  " 

"  Adieu,  my  dear  friend,  for  friend  you  are,  if  the  philospher 
was  right  in  defining  true  friendship  to  consist  in  liking  and 
disliking  the  same  things.  You  hate  parsnips  au  naturel — so 
do  I ;  you  love  pales  de  foie  gras,  et  moi  aussi — nous  voila  done 
tes  meilleurs  amis  du  monde  !  "GULOSETON." 

So  much  for  my  friend,  thought  I  ;  and  now  for  my 
mother — opening  the  maternal'epistle,  which  I  herewith  trans- 
cribe : 

"  MY  DEAR  HENRY  : 

"  Lose  no  time  in  coming  to  town.  Every  day  the  ministers 
are  filling  up  the  minor  places,  and  it  requires  a  great  stretch 
of  recollection  in  a  politician  to  remember  the  absent.  Mr. 

V said  yesterday,  at  a  dinner  party  where  I  was  present, 

that  Lord  Dawton  had  promised  him  the  Borough  of . 

Now  you  know,  my  dear  Henry,  that  was  the  very  borough  he 
promised  to  you  ;  you  must  see  further  into  this.  Lord  Daw- 
ton  is  a  good  sort  of  man  enough,  but  refused  once  to  fight  a 
duel ;  therefore,  if  he  has  disregarded  his  honor  in  one 
instance,  he  may  do  so  in  another  ;  at  all  events,  you  have  no 
time  to  lose. 

"  The  young  Duke  of gives  a  ball  to-morrow  evening  ; 

Mrs. pays  all  the  expenses,  and  I  know  for  a  certainty 

that  she  will  marry  him  in  a  week  ;  this  as  yet  is  a  secret. 
There  will  be  a  great  mixture,  but  the  ball  will  be  worth  going 
to.  I  have  a  card  for  you. 


$0%  f> ELttAM  } 

"  Lady  Huffemall  and  I  think  that  we  shall  not  patronize  the 
future  duchess  ;  but  have  not  yet  made  up  our  minds.  Lady 
Roseville,  however,  speaks  of  the  intended  match  with  great 
respect,  and  says  that  since  we  a&rmt  convenance  as  the  chief  rule 
in  matrimony,  she  never  remembers  an  instance  in  which  it  has 
been  more  consulted. 

"  There  are  to  be  several  promotions  in  the  peerage.     Lord 

— 's  friends  wish  to  give  out  that  he  will  have  a  dukedom  ; 
mat's  fen  doute.  However,  he  has  well  deserved  it  ;  for  he  not 
only  gives  the  best  dinners  in  town,  but  the  best  account  of 
them  in  the  Morning  Post  afterwards ;  which  I  think  is  very 
properly  upholding  the  dignity  of  our  order. 

"  I  hope  most  earnestly  that  you  do  not  (in  your  country  re- 
treat) neglect  your  health  ;  nor,  I  may  add,  your  mind  ;  and 
that  you  take  an  opportunity  every  other  day  of  practising 
waltzing,  which  you  can  very  well  do  with  the  help  of  an  arm- 
chair. I  would  send  you  down  (did  I  not  expect  you  here  so 

soon)  Lord  Mount  E 's  '  Musical  Reminiscences  ';  not  only 

because  it  is  a  very  entertaining  book,  but  because  I  wish  you 
to  pay  much  greater  attention  to  music  than  you  seem  inclined 

to  do.  ,  who  is  never  very  refined  in  his  bons  mots,  says 

that  Lord  M.  seems  to  have  considered  the  world  a  concert,  in 
which  the  best  performer  plays  first  fiddle.  It  is,  indeed,  quite 
delightful  to  see  the  veneration  our  musical  friend  has  for  the 
orchestra  and  its  occupants.  .  I  wish  to  Heaven,  my  dear 
Henry,  he  could  instil  into  you  a  little  of  his  ardor.  I  am 
quite  mortified  at  times  by  your  ignorance  of  tunes  and  operas  : 
nothing  tells  better  in  conversation  than  a  knowledge  of  music, 
as  you  will  one  day  or  other  discover. 

"God  bless  you,  my  dearest  Henry.  Fully  expecting  you, 
I  have  sent  to  engage  your  former  rooms  at  Mivart's ;  do  not 
let  me  be  disappointed.  Yours,  etc.,  F.  P." 

I  read  the  above  letter  twice  over,  and  felt  my  cheek  glow 
and  my  heart  swell  as  I  passed  the  passage  relative  to  Lord 
Dawton  and  the  borough.  The  new  minister  had  certainly,  for 
some  weeks  since,  been  playing  a  double  part  with  me ;  it 
would  long  ago  have  been  easy  to  procure  me  a  subordinate 
situation — still  easier  to  place  me  in  Parliament ;  yet  he  had 
contented  himself  with  doubtful  promises  and  idle  civilities. 
What,  however,  seemed  to  me  most  unaccountable  was,  his 
motive  in  breaking  or  paltering  with  his  engagement ;  he  knew 
that  I  had  served  him  and  his  party  better  than  half  his  corps ; 
he  professed,  not  only  to  me,  but  to  society,  the  highest  opinion 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.        303 

• 

of  my  abilities,  knowledge,  and  application  :  he  saw,  conse- 
quently, how  serviceable  I  could  be  as  a  friend  ;  and,  from  the 
same  qualities,  joined  to  the  rank  of  my  birth  and  connections, 
and  the  high  and  resentful  temper  of  my  mind,  he  might  readily 
augur  that  I  could  be  equally  influential  as  a  foe. 

With  this  reflection  I  stilled  the  beating  of  my  heart,  and  the 
fever  of  my  pulse.  I  crushed  the  obnoxious  letter  in  my  hand, 
walked  thrice  up  and  down  the  room,  paused  at  the  bell,  rang 
it  violently,  ordered  post  horses  instantly,  and  in  less  than  an 
hour  was  on  the  road  to  London. 

How  different  is  the  human  mind,  according  to  the  difference 
of  place  !  In  our  passions,  as  in  our  creeds,  we  are  the  mere 
dependents  of  geographical  situation.  Nay,  the  trifling  varia- 
tion of  a  single  mile  will  revolutionize  the  whole  tides  and  tor- 
rents of  our  hearts.  The  man  who  is  meek,  generous,  benev- 
olent, and  kind,  in  the  country,  enters  the  scene  of  contest, 
and  becomes  forthwith  fiery  or  mean,  selfish  or  stern,  just  as  if 
the  virtues  were  only  for  solitude,  and  the  vices  for  the  city. 
I  have  ill  expressed  the  above  reflection  ;  riimporte — so  much 
the  better  shall  I  explain  my  feelings  at  the  time  I  speak  of, 
for  I  was  then  too  eager  and  engrossed  to  attend  to  the  nice- 
ties of  words.  On  my  arrival  at  Mivart's  I  scarcely  allowed 
myself  time  to  change  my  dress  before  I  set  out  to  Lord  Daw- 
ton.  He  shall  afford  me  an  explanation,  I  thought,  or  a  rec- 
ompense, or  a  revenge.  I  knocked  at  the  door — the  minister 
was  out.  "  Give  him  this  card,"  said  I  to  the  porter,  "  and  say 
I  shall  call  to-morrow  at  three." 

I  walked  to  Brookes's  ;  there  I  met  Mr.  V .  My  ac- 
quaintance with  him  was  small ;  but  he  was  a  man  of  talent, 
and,  what  was  more  to  my  purpose,  of  open  manners.  I  went 
up  to  him,  and  we  entered  into  conversation.  "  Is  it  true," 
said  I,  "  that  I  am  to  congratulate  you  upon  the  certainty  of 
your  return  for  Lord  Dawton's  borough  of  ?  " 

"  I  believe  so,"  replied  V .  "  Lord  Dawton  engaged  it 

to  me  last  week,  and  Mr.  H ,  the  present  member,  has  ac- 
cepted the  Chiltern  Hundreds.  You  know  all  our  family  sup- 
port Lord  Dawton  warmly  in  the  present  crisis,  and  my  return 
for  this  borough  was  materially  insisted  upon.  Such  things  are, 
you  see,  Mr.  Pelham,  even  in  these  virtuous  days  of  parlia- 
mentary purity." 

"  True,"  said  I,  dissembling  my  chagrin,  "  yourself  and  Daw- 
ton  have  made  an  admirable  exchange.  Think  you  the  minis- 
try can  be  said  to  be  fairly  seated  ?  " 

"  By  no  means  ;  everything  depends  upon  the  motion  of , 


3C-4 

brought  on  next  week.  Dawton  looks  to  that  as  to  the  decisire 
battle  for  this  session." 

Lord  Garvelton  now  joined  us,  and  I  sauntered  away  with  the 
utmost  (seeming)  indifference.  At  the  top  of  St.  James's  Street 
Lady  Roseville's  well-known  carriage  passed  me  ;  she  stopped 
for  a  moment.  "We  shall  meet  at  the  Duke  of 's  to- 
night," said  she,  "shall  we  not?" 

"  If  you  go — certainly,"  I  replied. 

I  went  home  to  my  solitary  apartment ;  and  if  I  suffered 
somewhat  of  the  torments  of  baffled  hope  and  foiled  ambition, 
the  pang  is  not  for  the  spectator.  My  lighter  moments  are  for 
the  world — my  deeper  for  myself,  and,  like  the  Spartan  boy,  I 
would  keep,  even  in  the  pangs  of  death,  a  mantle  over  the  teeth 
and  fangs  which  were  fastening  upon  my  breast. 

CHAPTER  LXXI. 
"  Nocet  empta  dolore  voluptas." — OVID. 

THE  first  person  I  saw  at  the  Duke  of 's  was  Mr. 

Mivart — he  officiated  as  gentleman  usher:  the  second  was  my 
mother — she  was,  as  usual,  surrounded  by  men,  "  the  shades 
of  heroes  that  have  been,"  remnants  of  a  former  day,  when  the 
feet  of  the  young  and  fair  Lady  Frances  were  as  light  as  her 
head,  and  she  might  have  rivalled,  in  the  science  de  la  danse, 

even  the  graceful  Duchess  of  B -d.  Over  the  dandies  of 

her  own  time  she  still  preserved  her  ancient  empire  ;  and  it 
was  amusing  enough  to  hear  the  address  of  the  ci-devant jeunes 
hommes,  who  continued,  through  habit,  the  compliments  begun 
thirty  years  since  through  admiration. 

My  mother  was,  indeed,  what  the  world  calls  a  very  charm- 
ing, agreeable  woman.  Few  persons  were  more  popular  in 
society  :  her  manners  were  perfection,  her  smile  enchantment : 
she  lived,  moved,  breathed,  only  for  the  world,  and  the  world 
was  not  ungrateful  for  the  constancy  of  her  devotion.  Yet,  if 
her  letters  have  given  my  readers  any  idea  of  her  character, 
they  will  perceive  that  the  very  desire  of  supremacy  in  ton  gave 
(Heaven  forgive  my  filial  impiety  !)  a  sort  of  demi-vulgarism 
to  her  ideas  ;  for  they  who  live  wholly  for  the  opinion  of  others 
always  want  that  self-dignity  which  alone  confers  a  high  cast 
upon  the  sentiments  ;  and  the  most  really  unexceptionable  in 
mode  are  frequently  the  least  genuinely  patrician  in  mind. 

I  joined  the  maternal  party,  and  Lady  Frances  soon  took  an 
opportunity  of  whispering  :  "  You  are  looking  very  well,  and 
very  handsome  ;  I  declare  you  are  not  unlike  me,  especially 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         305 

about  the  eyes.  I  have  just  heard  that  Miss  Glanville  will  be 
a  great  heiress,  for  poor  Sir  Reginald  cannot  live  much  longer. 
She  is  here  to-night  ;  pray  do  not  lose  the  opportunity." 

My  cheek  burned  like  fire  at  this  speech,  and  my  mother, 
quietly  observing  that  I  had  a  beautiful  color,  and  ought  there- 
fore immediately  to  find  out  Miss  Glanville,  lest  it  should  van- 
ish by  tiie  least  delay,  turned  from  me  to  speak  of  a  public 
breakfast  about  shortly  to  be  given.  I  passed  into  the  danc- 
ing-room ;  there  I  found  Vincent ;  he  was  in  unusually  good 
spirits. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  with  a  sneer,  "you  have  not  taken  your  seat 
yet.  I  suppose  Lord  Dawton's  representative,  whose  place 
you  are  to  supply,  is  like  Theseus  ;  sedet  in  izternumque  sedebit. 
A  thousand  pities  you  can't  come  in  before  next  week;  we 
shall  then  have  fiery  motions  in  the  Lower  House,  as  the  astrol- 
ogers say." 

I  smiled.  "  Ah,  mon  cher!"  said  I,  "  Sparta  hath  many  a 
worthier  son  than  me  !  Meanwhile,  how  get  on  the  noble  Lords 
Lesborough  and  Lincoln?  'Sure  such  a  pair  were  never  seen, 
so  justly  formed  to  meet  by  nature  ! '  ' 

"  Pooh  !  "  said  Vincent  coarsely,  "  they  shall  get  on  well 
enough,  before  you  get  in.  Look  to  yourself,  and  remember 
that  'Caesar  plays  the  ingrate.'  " 

Vincent  turned  away ;  my  eyes  were  riveted  on  the  ground  ; 

the  beautiful  Lady passed  by  me :  "  What,  you  in  a 

revery  ? "  said  she,  laughing ;  "our  very  host  will  turn  thought- 
ful next !  " 

"  Nay,"  said  I,  "  in  your  absence  would  you  have  me  glad  ? 
However,  if  Moore's  mythology  be  true,  Beauty  loves  Folly  the 
better  for  borrowing  something  from  Reason  ;  but,  come,  this  is  a 
place  not  for  the  grave,  but  the  giddy.  Let  us  join  the  waltzers." 

"  I  am  engaged." 

"  I  know  it  !  Do  you  think  I  would  dance  with  any  woman 
who  was  not  engaged  ?  There  would  be  no  triumph  to  one's 
vanity  in  that  case.  Allons,  you  must  prefer  me  to  an  engage- 
ment"; and  so  saying,  I  led  off  my  prize. 

Her  intended  partner  was  Mr.  V ;  just  as  we  had  joined 

the  dancer*  he  spied  us  out,  and  approached  with  his  long,  se- 
rious, respectful  face  ;  the  music  struck  up,  and  the  next  mo- 
ment poor  V was  very  nearly  down.  Fraught  with  the  most 

political  spite,  I  whirled  up  against  him  ;  apologized  with  my 
blandest  smile,  and  left  him  him  wiping  his  mouth,  and  rub- 
bing his  shoulder,  the  most  forlorn  picture  of  Hope  in  adver- 
sity that  can  possibly  be  conceived, 


306  PELHAM  ; 

I  soon  grew  weary  of  my  partner,  and  leaving  her  to  fate, 
rambled  into  another  room.  There,  seated  alone,  was  Lady 
Roseville.  I  placed  myself  beside  her  ;  there  was  a  sort  of 
freemasonry  between  her  and  myself  ;  each  knew  something 
more  of  the  other  than  the  world  did,  and  read  his  or  her  heart 
by  other  signs  than  words.  I  soon  saw  that  she  was  in  no 
mirthful  mood  ;  so  much  the  better — she  was  the  fitter  com- 
panion for  a  baffled  aspirant  like  me. 

The  room  we  were  in  was  almost  deserted,  and  finding  our- 
selves uninterrupted,  the  stream  of  our  conversation  flowed 
into  sentiment. 

"How  little,"  said  Lady  Roseville,  "can  the  crowd  know  of 
the  individuals  who  compose  it  !  As  the  most  opposite  colors 
may  be  blended  into  one,  and  so  lose  their  individual  hues,  and 
be  classed  under  a  single  name,  so  every  one  here  will  go  home, 
and  speak  of  the  ''gay  scene '  without  thinking  for  a  moment 
how  many  breaking  hearts  may  have  composed  it." 

"  I  have  often  thought,"  said  I,  "  how  harsh  we  are  in  our 
judgments  of  others — how  often  we  accuse  those  persons  of 
being  worldly,  who  merely  seem  so  to  the  world.  Who,  for 
instance,  that  saw  you  in  your  brightest  moments  would  ever 
suppose  that  you  could  make  the  confession  you  have  just 
made  ? " 

"  I  would  not  make  such  a  confession  to  many  beside  your- 
self," answered  Lady  Roseville.  "  Nay,  you  need  not  thank 
me.  I  am  some  years  older  than  you  ;  I  have  lived  longer  in 
the  world  ;  I  have  seen  much  of  its  various  characters  ;  and  my 
experience  has  taught  me  to  penetrate  and  prize  a  character  like 
yours.  While  you  seem  frivolous  to  the  superficial,  I  know 
you  to  have  a  mind  not  only  capable  of  the  most  solid  and 
important  affairs,  but  habituated  by  reflection  to  consider  them. 
You  appear  effeminate,  I  know  that  none  are  more  daring  ;  in- 
dolent, none  are  more  actively  ambitious  ;  utterly  selfish,  and 
I  know  that  no  earthly  interest  could  bribe  you  into  meanness 
or  injustice — no,  nor  even  into  a  venial  dereliction  of  principle. 
It  is  from  this  estimate  of  your  character  that  1  am  frank  and 
open  to  you.  Besides,  I  recognize  something  in  the  careful 
pride  with  which  you  conceal  your  higher  and  deeper  feelings, 
resembling  the  strongest  actuating  principle  in  my  own  mind. 
All  this  interests  me  warmly  in  your  fate  ;  may  it  be  as  bright 
as  my  presentiments  forebode  !  " 

I  looked  into  the  beautiful  face  of  the  speaker  as  she  con- 
cluded ;  perhaps,  at  that  solitary  moment,  my  heart  was  un- 
faithful to  Ellen,  but  the  infidelity  passed  away  like  the  breath 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          307 

from  the  mirror.  Coxcomb  as  I  was,  I  knew  well  how  passion- 
less was  the  interest  expressed  for  me.  Rover  as  I  had  been, 
I  knew,  also,  how  pure  may  be  the  friendship  of  a  woman, — 
provided  she  loves  another  ! 

I  thanked  Lady  Roseville  warmly  for  her  opinion.  "  Per- 
haps," I  added,  "  dared  I  solicit  your  advice,  you  would  not 
find  me  wholly  undeserving  of  your  esteem." 

"  My  advice,"  answered  Lady  Roseville,  "  would  be,  indeed, 
worse  than  useless,  were  it  not  regulated  by  a  certain  knowledge 
which,  perhaps,  you  do  not  possess.  You  seem  surprised.  Eh 
bien  ;  listen  to  me — are  you  not  in  no  small  degree ///with  Lord 
Dawton  ?  Do  you  not  expect  something  from  him  worthy  of 
your  rank  and  merit  ?  " 

"  You  do,  indeed,  surprise  me,"  said  I.  "  However  close 
my  connection  with  Lord  Dawton  may  be,  I  thought  it  much 
more  secret  than  it  appears  to  be.  However,  I  own  that  I  have 
a  right  to  expect  from  Lord  Dawton,  not,  perhaps,  a  recom- 
pense of  service,  but,  at  least,  a  fulfillment  of  promises.  In 
this  expectation  I  begin  to  believe  I  shall  be  deceived." 

"  You  will  !  "  answered  Lady  Roseville.  "  Bend  your  head 
lower — the  walls  have  ears.  You  have  a  friend,  an  unwearied 
and  earnest  friend,  with  those  now  in  power  ;  directly  he  heard 

that  Mr.  V was  promised  the  borough  which  he  knew  had 

been  long  engaged  to  you,  he  went  straight  to  Lord  Dawton. 
He  found  him  with  Lord  Clandonald  ;  however,  he  opened  the 
matter  immediately.  He  spoke  with  great  warmth  of  your 
claims — he  did  more — he  incorporated  them  with  his  own, 
which  are  of  no  mean  order,  and  asked  no  other  recompense 
for  himself  than  the  fulfillment  of  a  long-made  promise  to  yo*. 
Dawton  was  greatly  confused,  and  Lord  Clandonald  replied,  for 
him,  that  certainly  there  was  no  denying  your  talents  ;  that 
they  were  very  great  ;  that  you  had,  unquestionably,  been  of 
much  service  to  their  party,  and  that,  consequently,  it  must  be 
politic  to  attach  you  to  their  interests  ;  but  that  there  was  a 
certain  fierte",  and  assumption,  and  he  might  say  (mark  the 
climax)  independence  about  you,  which  could  not  but  be  highly 
displeasing  in  one  so  young  ;  moreover,  that  it  was  impossible 
to  trust  to  you  ;  that  you  pledged  yourself  to  no  party  ;  that 
you  spoke  only  of  conditions  and  terms  ;  that  you  treated  the 
proposal  of  placing  you  in  Parliament  rather  as  a  matter  of 
favor  on  your  part  than  on  Lord  Dawton's ;  and,  in  a  word, 
that  there  was  no  relying  upon  you.  Lord  Dawton  then  took 

courage,  and  chimed  in  with  a  long  panegyric  on  V ,  and  a 

long  account  of  what  was  due  to  him,  and  to  the  zeal  of  his 


308  PELHAM  ; 

family  :  adding  that,  in  a  crisis  like  this,  it  was  absolutely  nec- 
essary to  engage  a  certain  rather  than  a  doubtful  and  unde- 
cided support  ;  that,  for  his  part,  if  he  placed  you  in  Parlia- 
ment, he  thought  you  quite  as  likely  to  prove  a  foe  as  a  friend  ; 
that,  owing  to  the  marriage  of  your  uncle,  your  expectations 
were  by  no  means  commensurate  with  your  presumption,  and 
that  the  same  talents  which  made  your  claims  to  favor  as  an 
ally,  created  also  no  small  danger  in  placing  you  in  any  situa- 
tion where  you  could  become  hurtful  as  an  enemy.  All  this, 
and  much  more  to  the  same  purpose,  was  strenuously  insisted 
upon  by  the  worthy  pair  ;  and  your  friend  was  obliged  to  take 
his  leave,  perfectly  convinced  that,  unless  you  assumed  a  more 
complaisant  bearing,  or  gave  a  more  decided  pledge,  to  the 
new  minister,  it  was  hopeless  for  you  to  expect  anything  from 
him,  at  least,  for  the  present.  The  fact  is,  he  stands  too  much 
in  awe  of  you,  and  would  rather  keep  you  out  of  the  House 
than  contribute  an  iota  towards  obtaining  you  a  seat.  Upon 
all  this  you  may  rely  as  certain." 

"I  thank  you  from  my  heart,"  said  I  warmly,  seizing  and 
pressing  Lady  Roseville's  hand.  "You  tell  me  what  I  have 
long  suspected  ;  I  am  now  upon  my  guard,  and  they  shall  find 
that  I  can  of  (end  as  well  as  i&fend.  But  it  is  no  time  for  me 
to  boast ;  oblige  me  by  informing  me  of  the  name  of  my  un- 
known friend  ;  I  never  thought  there  was  a  being  in  the  world 
who  would  stir  three  steps  for  Henry  Pelham." 

"That  friend,"  replied  Lady  Roseville,  with  a  faltering  voice 
and  a  glowing  cheek,  "was  Sir  Reginald  Glanville." 

"What  !  "  cried  I,  "  repeat  the  name  to  me  again,  or — "  I 
paused  and  recovered  myself.  "  Sir  Reginald  Glanville,"  I 
resumed  haughtily,  "  is  too  gracious  to  enter  into  my  affairs. 
I  must  be  strangely  altered  if  I  need  the  officious  zeal  of  any 
intermeddler  to  redress  my  wrongs." 

"  Nay,  Mr.  Pelham,"  said  the  Countess  hastily,  "  you  do 
Glanville — you  do  yourself  injustice.  For  him,  there  never 
passes  a  day  in  which  he  does  not  mention  you  with  the  high- 
est encomiums  and  the  most  affectionate  regard.  He  says,  of 
late,  that  you  have  altered  towards  him,  but  that  he  is  not  sur- 
prised at  the  change — he  never  mentions  the  cause  ;  if  I  am 
not  intruding,  suffer  me  to  inquire  into  it  ;  perhaps  (oh  !  how 
happy  it  would  make  me)  I  may  be  able  to  reconcile  you  ;  if 
you  knew — if  you  could  but  guess  half  of  the  noble  and  lofty 
character  of  Reginald  Glanville,  you  would  suffer  no  petty  dif- 
ference to  divide  you." 

"  It  is  no  petty  difference,"  said  I,  rising,  "nor  am  I  permitted 


OR,    ADVENTURES    OF    A    GENTLEMAN.  369 

to  mention  the  cause.  Meanwhile,  may  God  bless  you,  dearest 
Lady  Roseville,  and  preserve  that  kind  and  generous  heart 
from  worse  pangs  than  those  of  disappointed  ambition,  or  be- 
trayed trust." 

Lady  Roseville  looked  down — her  bosom  heaved  violently  ; 
she  felt  the  meaning  of  my  words.  I  left  her  and  returned 
home. 

CHAPTER  LXXII. 

"  Good  Mr.  Knave,  give  me  my  due, 
I  like  a  tart  as  well  as  you  ; 
But  I  would  starve  on  good  roast  beef, 
Ere  I  would  look  so  like  a  thief." 

—  The  Queen  of  Hearts. 

" Nunc  vino  pellite  curas  : 

Cras  ingens  iterabimus  aequor." — HOR. 

THE  next  morning  I  received  a  note  from  Guloseton,  asking 
me  to  dine  with  him  at  eight,  to  meet  his  chevreuil.  I  sent  back 
an  answer  in  the  affirmative,  and  then  gave  myself  wholly  up  to 
considering  what  was  the  best  line  of  conduct  to  pursue  with 
regard  to  Lord  Dawton.  "  It  would  be  pleasant  enough,"  said 
Anger,  "  to  go  to  him  to  ask  him  boldly  for  the  borough  so 
often  pledged  to  you,  and,  in  case  of  his  refusal,  to  confront,  to 
taunt,  and  to  break  with  him."  "True,"  replied  that  more 
homely  and  less  stage-effect  arguer,  which  we  term  Knowledge 
of  the  World  ;  "  but  this  would  be  neither  useful  nor  dignified — 
common-sense  never  quarrels  with  any  one.  Call  upon  Lord 
Dawton,  if  you  will  ;  ask  him  for  his  promise,  with  your  second- 
best  smile,  and  receive  his  excuses  with  your  very  best.  Then 
do  as  you  please — break  with  him  or  not — you  can  do  either 
with  grace  and  quiet  ;  never  make  a  scene  about  anything — 
reproach  and  anger  always  do  make  a  scene."  "  Very  true," 
said  I,  in  answer  to  the  latter  suggestion  ;  and  having  made  up 
my  mind,  I  repaired  a  quarter  before  three  to  Lord  Dawton's 
house. 

"Ah,  Pelham,"  said  the  little  minister,  "delighted  to  see  you 
look  so  much  the  better  from  the  country  air  ;  you  will  stay  in 
town  now,  I  hope,  till  the  end  of  the  season  ? " 

"  Certainly,  Lord  Dawton,  or,  at  all  events,  till  the  proroga- 
tion of  Parliament  ;  how,  indeed,  could  I  do  otherwise,  with 

your  lordship's  kind  promise  before  my  eyes  ?  Mr. ,  the 

member  for  your  borough  of ,  has,  I  believe,  accepted  the 

Chiltern  Hundreds?  I  feel  truly  obliged  to  you  for  so 
promptly  fulfilling  your  promise  to  me." 


310  PELHAM; 

"  Hem  !  my  dear  Pelham,  hem  !  "  murmured  Lord  Dawton. 
I  bent  forward  as  if  in  the  attitude  of  listening  respect,  but 
really  the  more  clearly  to  perceive,  and  closely  to  enjoy,  his 
confusion.  He  looked  up  and  caught  my  eye,  and  not  being  too 
much  gratified  with  its  involuntary  expression,  he  grew  more 
and  more  embarrassed  ;  at  last  he  summoned  courage. 

"Why,  my  dear  sir,"  he  said,  "  I  did,  it  is  true,  promise  you 
that  borough  ;  but  individual  friendship  must  frequently  be 
sacrificed  to  the  public  good.  All  our  party  insisted  upon  re- 
turning Mr.  V in  place  of  the  late  member  :  what  could  I 

do  ?  I  mentioned  your  claims  ;  they  all,  to  a  man,  enlarged 
upon  your  rival's :  to  be  sure  he  is  an  older  person,  and  his 
family  is  very  powerful  in  the  Lower  House :  in  short,  you 
perceive,  my  dear  Pelham — that  is,  you  are  aware — you  can  feel 
for  the  delicacy  of  my  situation — one  could  not  appear  too 
eager  for  one's  own  friends  at  first,  and  I  was  forced  to  concede." 

Lord  Dawton  was  now  fairly  delivered  of  his  speech  ;  it 
was,  therefore,  only  left  me  to  congratulate  him  on  his  off- 
spring. 

"My  dear  lord,"  I  began,  "you  could  not  have  pleased  me 

better :  Mr.  V is  a  most  estimable  man,  and  I  would  not, 

for  the  world,  have  had  you  suspected  of  placing  such  a  trifle 
as  your  own  honor — that  is  to  say,  your  promise  to  me,  before 
the  commands — that  is  to  say  the  interests — of  your  party ; 
but  no  more  of  this  now.  Was  your  lordship  at  the  Duke 
of 's  last  night  ?" 

Dawton  seized  joyfully  the  opportunity  of  changing  the 
conversation,  and  we  talked  and  laughed  on  indifferent  matters 
till  I  thought  it  time  to  withdraw ;  this  I  did  with  the  most 
cordial  appearance  of  regard  and  esteem  ;  nor  was  it  till  I  had 
fairly  set  my  foot  out  of  his  door  that  I  suffered  myself  to  in- 
dulge the  "black  bile  "at  my  breast.  I  turned  towards  the 
Green  Park,  and  was  walking  slowly  along  the  principal  mall 
with  my  hands  behind  me,  and  my  eyes  on  the  ground,  when  I 
heard  my  own  name  uttered.  On  looking  back  I  perceived 
Lord  Vincent  on  horseback  ;  he  stopped  and  conversed  with 
me.  In  the  humor  I  was  in  with  Lord  Dawton,  I  received  him 
with  greater  warmth  than  I  had  done  of  late;  and  he  also, 
being  in  a  social  mood,  seemed  so  well  satisfied  with  our  ren- 
contre, and  my  behavior,  that  he  dismounted  to  walk  with  me. 

"This  park  is  a  very  different  scene  now,"  said  Vincent, 
"from  what  it  was  in  the  times  of  'The  Merry  Monarch' ;  yet 
it  is  still  a  spot  much  more  to  my  taste  than  its  more  gaudy 
and  less  classical  brother  of  Hyde.  There  is  something  pleas- 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         311 

ingly  melancholy  in  walking  over  places  haunted  by  history  ; 
for  all  of  us  live  more  in  the  past  than  the  present." 

"  And  how  exactly  alike  in  all  ages,"  said  I,  "  men  have  been. 
On  the  very  spot  we  are  on  now,  how  many  have  been  actuated 
by  the  same  feelings  that  now  actuate  us  ;  how  many  have 
made  perhaps  exactly  the  same  remark  just  made  by  you  !  It 
is  this  universal  identity  which  forms  our  most  powerful  link 
with  those  that  have  Deeti — there  is  a  satisfaction  in  seeing  how 
closely  we  resemble  the  Agamemnon s  of  gone  times,  and  we 
take  care  to  lose  none  of  it,  by  thinking  how  closely  we  also 
resemble  the  Thersites." 

"True,"  replied  Vincent;  "if  wise  and  great  men  did  but 
know  how  little  difference  there  is  between  them  and  the  fool- 
ish or  the  mean,  they  would  not  take  such  pains  to  be  wise  and 
great;  to  use  the  Chinese  proverb,  'they  sacrifice  a  picture,  to 
get  possession  of  its  ashes.'  It  is  almost  a  pity  that  the  desire 
to  advance  should  be  so  necessary  to  our  being ;  ambition  is 
often  a  fine,  but  never  a  felicitous,  feeling.  Cyprian,  in  a 
beautiful  passage  on  envy,  calls  it  '  the  moth  of  the  soul' :  but 
perhaps,  even  that  passion  is  less  gnawing,  less  a  '  tabes  pectoris* 
than  ambition.  You  are  surprised  at  my  heat — the  fact  is,  I 
am  enraged  at  thinking  how  much  we  forfeit,  when  we  look  up 
only,  and  trample  unconsciously,  in  the  blindness  of  our  aspi- 
ration, on  the  affections  which  strew  our  path.  Now,  you  and 
I  have  been  utterly  estranged  from  each  other  of  late.  Why  ? 
For  any  dispute,  any  disagreement  in  private,  any  discovery  of 
meanness,  treachery,  unworthiness  in  the  other?  No!  Merely 
because  I  dine  with  Lord  Lincoln,  and  you  with  Lord  Dawton, 
•voila  tout.  Well  say  the  Jesuits,  that  they  who  live  for  the 
public  must  renounce  all  private  ties ;  the  very  day  we  become 
citizens  we  are  to  cease  to  be  men.  Our  privacy  is  like  Leo 
Decimus ;  directly  it  dies,  all  peace,  comfort,  joy,  and  sociality 
are  to  die  with  it :  and  an  iron  age,  ' barbara  vis  et  dira  malorum 
omnium  incommoda '  to  succeed. 

"It  is  a  pity  that  we  struck  into  different  paths,"  said  I : 
"no  pleasure  would  have  been  to  me  greater  than  making  our 
political  interests  the  same  ;  but — " 

"  Perhaps  there  is  no  but,"  interrupted  Vincent;  "perhaps, 
like  the  two  knights  in  the  hackneyed  story,  we  are  only  giv- 
ing different  names  to  the  same  shield,  because  we  view  it  on 
different  sides ;  let  us  also  imitate  them  in  their  reconciliation, 
as  well  as  their  quarrel,  and  since  we  have  already  run  our 
lances  against  each  other,  be  convinced  of  our  error,  and  make 
up  our  difference." 


I  was  silent ;  indeed,  I  did  not  like  to  trust  myself  to  speak. 
Vincent  continued  : 

"I  know,"  said  he,  "  and  it  is  in  vain  for  you  to  conceal  it. 

that  you  have  been  ill-used  by  Dawton.  Mr.  V is  my  first 

cousin  ;  he  came  to  me  the  day  after  the  borough  was  given  to 
him,  and  told  me  all  that  Clandonald  and  Dawton  had  said  to 
him  at  the  time.  Believe  me,  they  did  not  spare  you ;  the 
former  you  have  grievously  offended  ;  you  know  that  he  has 
quarrelled  irremediably  with  his  son  Dartmore,  and  he  insists 
that  you  are  the  friend  and  abettor  of  that  ingenuous  youth,  in 
all  his  debaucheries  and  extravagance — tu  ilium  corrumpi  sinis. 
I  tell  you  this  without  hesitation,  for  I  know  you  are  less  vain 
than  ambitious,  and  I  do  not  care  about  hurting  you  in  the  one 
point,  if  I  advance  you  in  the  other.  As  for  me,  I  own  to  you 
candidly  and  frankly  that  there  are  no  pains  I  would  spare  to 
secure  you  to  our  party.  Join  us,  and  you  shall,  as  I  have 
often  said,  be  on  the  parliamentary  benches  of  our  corps  with- 
out a  moment  of  unnecessary  delay.  More  I  cannot  promise 
you,  because  I  cannot  promise  more  to  myself ;  but  from  that 
instant  your  fortune,  if  I  augur  aught  aright  from  your  ability, 
will  be  in  your  hands.  You  shake  your  head — surely  you  must 
see  that  our  differences  are  not  vehement ;  it  is  a  difference  not 
of  measures,  but  men.  There  is  but  a  verbal  disagreement 
between  us  ;  and  we  must  own  the  wisdom  of  the  sentence 
recorded  in  Aultis  Gellius,  that  *  he  is  but  a  madman  who  splits 
the  weight  of  things  upon  the  hair-breadths  of  words.'  You 
laugh  at  the  quaintness  of  the  quotation  ;  quaint  proverbs  are 
often  the  truest." 

If  my  reader  should  think  lightly  of  me  when  I  own  that  I 
felt  wavering  and  irresolute  at  the  end  of  this  speech,  let  him 
for  a  moment  place  himself  in  my  situation  :  let  him  feel  indig- 
nant at  the  treachery,  the  injustice,  the  ingratitude  of  one 
man  ;  and,  at  the  very  height  of  his  resentment,  let  him  be 
soothed,  flattered,  courted,  by  the  offered  friendship  and  favor 
of  another.  Let  him  personally  despise  the  former,  and  esteem 
the  latter;  and  let  him,  above  all,  be  convinced,  as  well  as 
persuaded,  of  the  truth  of  Vincent's  hint,  viz.,  that  no  sacrifice 
of  principle,  nor  of  measures,  was  required — nothing  but  an 
alliance  against  men,  not  measures.  And  who  were  those  men  ? 
Bound  to  me  by  a  single  tie — meriting  from  my  gratitude  a 
single  consideration  ?  No  !  the  men,  above  all  others,  who  had 
offered  me  the  greatest  affront,  and  deserved  from  me  the 
smallest  esteem. 

But,  however  human  feelings  might  induce  me  to  waver,  I 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         313 

felt  that  it  was  not  by  them  only  I  was  to  decide.  I  am  not  a 
man  whose  vices  or  virtues  are  regulated  by  the  impulse  and 
passion  of  the  moment :  if  I  am  quick  to  act,  I  am  habitually 
slow  to  deliberate.  I  turned  to  Vincent,  and  pressed  his  hand  : 
"  I  dare  not  trust  myself  to  answer  you  now,"  said  I ;  "  give 
me  till  to-morrow ;  I  shall  then  have  both  considered  and 
determined." 

I  did  not  wait  for  his  reply.  I  sprang  from  him,  turned 
down  the  passage  which  leads  to  Pall  Mall,  and  hastened  home 
once  more  to  commune  with  my  own  heart,  and — not  to  be  still. 

In  these  confessions  I  have  made  no  scruple  of  owning  my 
errors  and  my  foibles ;  all  that  could  occasion  mirth  or  benefit 
to  the  reader  were  his  own.  I  kept  a  veil  over  the  darker  and 
stormier  emotions  of  my  soul ;  all  that  could  neither  amuse 
nor  instruct  him  are  mine  ! 

Hours  passed  on  :  it  became  time  to  dress  ;  I  rang  for  Bedos, 
dressed  as  usual— great  emotions  interfere  little  with  the  me- 
chanical operations  of  life — and  drove  to  Guloseton's. 

He  was  unusually  entertaining  ;  the  dinner  too  was  unusually 
good  ;  but,  thinking  that  I  was  sufficiently  intimate  with  my 
host  not  to  be  obliged  to  belie  my  feelings,  I  remained  distrait, 
absent,  and  dull. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you,  my  friend  ?  "  said  the  good- 
natured  epicure  ;  "you  have  neither  applauded  my  jokes,  nor 
tasted  my  escallopes ;  and  your  behavior  has  trifled  alike  with 
my  chevreuil  and  my  feelings?"  The  proverb  is  right,  in  say- 
ing "  Grief  is  communicative."  I  confess  that  I  was  eager  to 
unbosom  myself  to  one  upon  whose  confidence  I  could  depend. 
Guloseton  heard  me  with  great  attention  and  interest.  "  Lit- 
tle," said  he  kindly,  "Little  as  I  care  for  these  matters  myself, 
I  can  feel  for  those  who  do  :  I  wish  I  could  serve  you  better 
than  by  advice.  However,  you  cannot,  1  imagine,  hesitate  to 
accept  Vincent's  offer.  What  matters  it  whether  you  sit  on 
one  bench  or  on  another,  so  that  you  do  not  sit  in  a  thorough 
draught — or  dine  at  Lord  Lincoln's,  or  Lord  Dawton's,  so  long 
as  the  cooks  are  equally  good  ?  As  for  Dawton,  I  always  thought 
him  a  shuffling,  mean  fellow,  who  buys  his  wines  at  the  second 
price,  and  sells  his  offices  at  the  first.  Come,  my  dear  fellow, 
let  us  drink  to  his  confusion." 

So  saying,  Guloseton  filled  my  glass  to  the  brim.  He  had 
sympathized  with  me — I  thought  it,  therefore,  my  duty  to  sym- 
pathize with  him  ;  nor  did  we  part  till  the  eyes  of  the/w/  vivant 
saw  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth  than  are  dreamt  of  in  the 
philosophy  of  the  sober. 


314  PELHAM  ; 

CHAPTER  LXXIII. 

"Si  ad  honestatem    nati  sumus,   ea  aut  sola  expetenda  est,  aut  certe 
omni  pondere  gravior  est  habenda  quam  reliqua  omnia." — TULLY. 

"  Cas.  Brutus,  I  do  observe  you  now  of  late  : 

I  have  not  from  your  eyes  that  gentleness, 

And  show  of  love  as  I  was  wont  to  have." — -Julius  Ctzsar. 

I  ROSE  at  my  usual  early  hour ;  sleep  had  tended  to  calm, 
and,  I  hope,  also  to  better,  my  feelings.  I  had  now  leisure  to 
reflect  that  I  had  nqt  embraced  my  party  from  any  private  or 
interested  motive  ;  it  was  not,  therefore,  from  a  private  or  in- 
terested motive  that  I  was  justified  in  deserting  it.  Our  pas- 
sions are  terrible  sophists  !  When  Vincent  had  told  me  the 
day  before  that  it  was  from  men,  not  measures,  that  I  was  to 
'change,  and  that  such  a  change  could  scarcely  deserve  the 
name,  my  heart  adopted  the  assertion,  and  fancied  it  into  truth. 

I  now  began  to  perceive  the  delusion  ;  were  government  as 
mechanically  perfect  as  it  has  never  yet  been  (but  as  I  trust  it 
may  yet  be),  it  would  signify  little  who  were  the  mere  machines 
that  regulated  its  springs  ;  but,  in  a  constitution  like  ours,  the 
chief  character  of  which — pardon  me,  ye  De  Lolmeites — is  its 
uncertainty  ;  where  men  invariably  make  the  measures  square 
to  the  dimensions  of  their  own  talent  or  desire  ;  and  where, 
reversing  the  maxim  of  the  tailor,  the  measures  so  rarely  make 
the  men,  it  required  no  penetration  to  see  how  dangerous  it 
was  to  entrust  to  the  aristocratic  prejudice  of  Lincoln,  or 
the  vehement  imbecility  of  Lesborough,  the  execution  of  the 
very  same  measures  which  might  safely  be  committed  to  the 
plain  sense  of  Dawton,  and,  above  all,  to  the  great  and  various 
talents  of  his  coadjutors.  But  what  made  the  vital  difference 
between  the  two  parties  was  less  in  the  leaders  than  the  body. 
In  the  Dawton  faction  the  best,  the  purest,  the  wisest  of  the 
day  were  enrolled  ;  they  took  upon  themselves  the  origin  of  all 
the  active  measures,  and  Lord  Dawton  was  the  mere  channel 
through  which  those  measures  flowed  ;  the  plain,  the  unpre- 
tending, and  somewhat  feeble  character  of  Lord  Dawton's 
mind  readily  conceded  to  the  abler  components  of  his  party 
the  authority  it  was  so  desirable  that  they  should  exert.  In  Vin- 
cent's party,  with  the  exception  of  himself,  there  was  scarcely 
an  individual  with  the  honesty  requisite  for  loving  the  projects 
they  affected  to  purpose,  or  the  talents  that  were  necessary  for 
carrying  them  into  effect,  even  were  their  wishes  sincere  ;  nor 
was  either  the  haughty  Lincoln,  or  his  noisy  and  overbearing 
companion,  Lesborough,  at  all  of  a  temper  to  suffer  that  quiet 


OR,  ADVENTURES    OF    A    GENTLEMAN.  315 

yet  powerful  interference  of  others,  to  which  Dawton  unhesi 
tatingly  submitted. 

I  was  the  more  resolved  to  do  all  possible  justice  to  Dawton's 
party,  from  the  inclination  I  naturally  had  to  lean  towards  the 
other ;  and  in  all  matters,  where  private  pique  or  self-interest 
can  possibly  penetrate,  it  has  ever  been  the  object  of  my  ma- 
turer  consideration  to  direct  my  particular  attention  to  that 
side  of  the  question  which  such  undue  partisans  are  the  least 
likely  to  espouse.  While  I  was  gradually,  but  clearly,  feeling 
my  way  to  a  decision,  I  received  the  following  note  from  Gu- 
loseton  : 

"I  said  nothing  to  you  last  night  of  what  is  now  the  subject 
of  my  letter,  lest  you  should  suppose  it  arose  rather  from  the 
heat  of  an  extempore  conviviality,  than  its  real  source,  viz., 
a  sincere  esteem  for  your  mind,  a  sincere  affection  for  your 
heart,  and  a  sincere  sympathy  in  your  resentment  and  your 
interest. 

"  They  tell  me  that  Lord  Dawton's  triumph  or  discomfiture 

rests  entirely  upon  the  success  of  the  motion  upon , 

brought  before  the  House  of  Commons,  on  the .  I 

care,  you  know,  very  little,  for  my  own  part,  which  way  this 
question  is  decided  ;  do  not  think,  therefore,  that  I  make  any 
sacrifice  when  I  request  you  to  suffer  me  to  follow  your 
advice  in  the  disposal  of  my  four  votes.  I  imagine,  of  course, 
that  you  would  wish  them  to  adopt  the  contrary  side  to  Lord 
Dawton  ;  and  upon  receiving  a  line  from  you  to  that  effect, 
they  shall  be  empowered  to  do  so. 

"  Pray,  oblige  me  also  by  taking  the  merit  of  this  measure 
upon  yourself,  and  saying  (wherever  it  may  be  useful  to  you) 
how  entirely  both  the  voters  and  their  influence  are  at  your 
disposal.  I  trust  we  shall  yet  play  the  Bel  to  this  Dragon,  and 
fell  him  from  his  high  places. 

"  Pity  me,  my  dear  fried  ;  I  dine  out  to-day,  and  feel 
already,  by  an  intuitive  shudder,  that  the  soup  will  be  cold 
and  the  sherry  hot.  Adieu.  Ever  yours,  GULOSETON." 

Now,  then,  my  triumph,  my  vanity,  and  my  revenge  might 
be  fully  gratified.  I  had  before  me  a  golden  opportunity  of 
displaying  my  own  power,  and  of  humbling  that  of  the  minis- 
ter. My  heart  swelled  high  at  the  thought.  Let  it  be  forgiven 
me,  if,  for  a  single  moment,  my  previous  calculations  and 
morality  vanished  from  my  mind,  and  I  saw  only  the  offer  of 
Vincent,  and  the  generosity  of  Guloseton.  But  I  checked  the 
risings  of  my  heart,  and  compelled  my  proud  spirit  to  obedience. 


316  PELHAM  ; 

I  placed  Guloseton's  letter  before  me,  and,  as  I  read  it  once 
more  in  order  to  reply  to  it,  the  disinterested  kindness  and 
delicacy  of  one  whom  I  had  long,  in  the  injustice  of  my 
thoughts,  censured  as  selfish,  came  over  me  so  forcibly,  and 
contrasted  so  deeply  with  the  hollowness  of  friends  more 
sounding,  alike  in  their  profession  and  their  creeds,  that  the 
tears  rushed  to  my  eyes. 

A  thousand  misfortunes  are  less  affecting  than  a  single  kind- 
ness. 

I  wrote,  in  answer,  a  warm  and  earnest  letter  of  thanks  for 
an  offer,  the  kindness  of  which  penetrated  me  to  the  soul.  I 
detailed  at  some  length  the  reasons  which  induced  me  to  the 
decision  I  had  taken  ;  I  sketched  also  the  nature  of  the 
very  important  motion  about  to  be  brought  before  the  House, 
and  deduced  from  that  sketch  the  impossibility  of  conscien- 
tiously opposing  Lord  Dawton's  party  in  the  debate.  I  con- 
cluded with  repeating  the  expressions  my  gratitude  suggested  ; 
and,  after  declining  all  interference  with  Lord  Guloseton's 
votes,  ventured  to  add,  that  had  I  interfered,  it  would  have 
been  in  support  of  Dawton  ;  not  as  a  man,  but  a  minister — not 
as  an  individual  friend,  but  a  public  servant. 

I  had  just  despatched  this  letter  when  Vincent  entered  ;  I 
acquainted  him,  though  in  the  most  respectful  and  friendly 
terms,  with  my  determination.  He  seemed  greatly  disap- 
pointed, and  endeavored  to  shake  my  resolution  ;  finding  this 
was  in  vain,  he  appeared  at  last  satisfied,  and  even  affected  with 
my  reasons.  When  we  parted,  it  was  with  a  promise,  confirmed 
by  both,  that  no  public  variance  should  ever  again  alter  our 
private  opinion  of  each  other. 

When  I  was  once  more  alone,  and  saw  myself  brought  back 
to  the  very  foot  of  the  ladder  I  had  so  far  and  so  fortunately 
climbed  ;  when  I  saw  that,  in  rejecting  all  the  overtures  of  my 
friends,  I  was  left  utterly  solitary  and  unaided  among  my  foes  ; 
when  I  looked  beyond,  and  saw  no  faint  loophole  of  hope,  no 
single  stepping-stone  on  which  to  recommence  my  broken  but 
unwearied  career — perhaps  one  pang  of  regret  and  repentance 
at  my  determination  came  across  me  :  but  there  is  something 
marvellously  restorative  in  a  good  conscience,  and  one  soon 
learns  to  look  with  hope  to  the  future,  when  one  can  feel  justi- 
fied in  turning  with  pride  to  the  past. 

My  horse  came  to  the  door  at  my  usual  hour  for  riding:  with 
what  gladness  I  sprang  upon  his  back,  felt  the  free  wind  fresh- 
ening over  my  fevered  cheek,  and  turned  my  rein  towards  the 
green  lanes  that  border  the  great  city  on  its  western  side,  I 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         317 

know  few  counsellors  more  exhilarating  than  a  spirited  horse. 
I  do  not  wonder  that  the  Roman  emperor  made  a  consul  of  his 
steed.  On  horseback  I  always  best  feel  my  powers,  and  sur- 
vey my  resources  :  on  horseback  I  always  originate  my  subtlest 
schemes,  and  plan  their  ablest  execution.  Give  me  but  a  light 
rein,  and  a  free  bound,  and  I  am  Cicero — Cato — Caesar;  dis- 
mount me,  and  I  become  a  mere  clod  of  the  earth  which  you 
condemn  me  to  touch :  fire,  energy,  ethereality,  have  departed  ; 
I  am  the  soil  without  the  sun — the  cask  without  the  wine — the 
garments  without  the  man. 

I  returned  homewards  with  increased  spirits  and  collected 
thoughts  :  I  urged  my  mind  from  ray  own  situation,  and  suf- 
fered it  to  rest  upon  what  Lady  Roseville  had  told  me  of  Regi- 
nald Glanville's  interference  in  my  behalf.  That  extraordinary 
man  still  continued  powerfully  to  excite  my  interest ;  nor  could 
I  dwell,  without  some  yearning  of  the  kindlier  affections,  upon 
his  unsolicited,  and,  but  for  Lady  Roseville's  communication, 
unknown  exertions  in  my  cause.  Although  the  officers  of  jus- 
tice were  still  actively  employed  in  the  pursuit  of  Tyrrell's  mur- 
derer, and  although  the  newspapers  were  still  full  of  specula- 
tions on  their  indifferent  success,  public  curiosity  had  begun 
to  flag  upon  the  inquiry.  I  had,  once  or  twice,  been  in  Glan- 
ville's company  when  the  murder  was  brought  upon  the  tapis, 
and  narrowly  examined  his  behavior  upon  a  subject  which 
touched  him  so  fearfully.  I  could  not,  however,  note  any  ex- 
traordinary confusion  or  change  in  his  countenance  ;  perhaps 
the  pale  cheek  grew  somewhat  paler,  the  dreaming  eye  more 
abstracted,  and  the  absent  spirit  more  wandering  than  before  ; 
but  many  other  causes  than  guilt  could  account  for  signs  so 
doubtful  and  minute. 

"You  shall  soon  know  all,"  the  last  words  which  he  had  ad- 
dressed to  me,  yet  rang  in  my  ears  ;  and  most  intensely  did  I 
anticipate  the  fulfilment  of  this  promise.  My  hopes  too — those 
flatterers,  so  often  the  pleasing  antitheses  of  reason — whispered 
that  this  was  not  the  pledge  of  a  guilty  man  ;  and  yet  he  had 
said  to  Lady  Roseville  that  he  did  not  wonder  at  my  estrange- 
ment from  him  :  such  words  seemed  to  require  a  less  favorable 
construction  than  those  he  had  addressed  to  me  ;  and,  in  making 
this  mental  remark,  another,  of  no  flattering  nature  to  Glan- 
ville's disinterestedness,  suggested  itself  ;  might  not  his  inter- 
ference for  me  with  Lord  Dawton  arise  rather  from  policy  than 
friendship  ;  might  it  not  occur  to  him,  if,  as  I  surmised,  he  was 
acquainted  with  my  suspicions,  and  acknowledged  their  dread- 
ful justice,  that  it  would  be  advisable  to  propitiate  my  silence  ? 


318  PELHAM  ; 

Such  were  among  the  thousand  thoughts  which  flashed  across 
me,  and  left  my  speculations  in  debate  and  doubt. 

Nor  did  my  reflections  pass  unnoticed  the  nature  of  Lady 
Roseville's  affection  for  Glanville.  From  the  seeming  coldness 
and  austerity  of  Sir  Reginald's  temperament,  it  was  likely  that 
this  was  innocent,  at  least  in  act  ;  and  there  was  also  some- 
thing guileless  in  the  manner  in  which  she  appeared  rather  to 
exult  in,  than  to  conceal,  her  attachment.  True  that  she  was 
bound  by  no  ties  ;  she  had  neither  husband  nor  children,  for 
whose  sake  love  became  a  crime  ;  free  and  unfettered,  if  she 
gave  her  heart  to  Glanville,  it  was  also  allowable  to  render 
the  gift  lawful  and  perpetual  by  the  blessing  of  the  Church. 

Alas  !  how  little  can  woman,  shut  up  in  her  narrow  and  lim- 
ited circle  of  duties,  know  of  the  wandering  life  and  various 
actions  of  her  lover  !  Little,  indeed,  could  Lady  Roseville, 
when  in  the  heat  of  her  enthusiasm  she  spoke  of  the  lofty  and 
generous  character  of  Glanville,  dream  of  the  foul  and  das- 
tardly crime  of  which  he  was  more  than  suspected  ;  nor  while 
it  was,  perhaps,  her  fondest  wish  to  ally  herself  to  his  destiny, 
could  her  wildest  fancies  anticipate  the  felon's  fate,  which,  if 
death  came  not  in  a  hastier  and  kinder  shape,  must  sooner  or 
later  await  him. 

Of  Thornton  I  had  neither  seen  nor  heard  aught  since  my 
departure  from  Lord  Chester's  ;  that  reprieve  was,  however, 
shortly  to  expire.  I  had  scarcely  got  into  Oxford  Street,  in  my 
way  homeward,  when  I  perceived  him  crossing  the  street  with 
another  man.  I  turned  round  to  scrutinize  the  features  of  his 
companion,  and,  in  spite  of  a  great  change  of  dress,  a  huge 
pair  of  false  whiskers,  and  an  artificial  appearance  of  increased 
age,  my  habit  of  observing  countenances  enabled  me  to  recog- 
nize, on  the  instant,  my  intellectual  and  virtuous  friend,  Mr. 
Job  Jonson.  They  disappeared  in  a  shop,  nor  did  I  think  it 
worth  while  further  to  observe  them,  though  I  still  bore  a  re- 
miniscitory  spite  against  Mr.  Job  Jonson,  which  I  was  fully 
resolved  to  wreak  at  the  first  favorable  opportunity. 

I  passed  by  Lady  Roseville's  door.  Though  the  hour  was 
late,  and  I  had,  therefore,  but  a'  slight  chance  of  finding  her  at 
home,  yet  I  thought  the  chance  worth  the  trouble  of  inquiry. 
To  my  agreeable  surprise  I  was  admitted  ;  no  one  was  in  the 
drawing-room.  The  servant  said  Lady  Roseville  was  at  that 
moment  engaged,  but  would  very  shortly  see  me,  and  begged 
I  would  wait. 

Agitated  as  I  was  by  various  reflections,  I  walked  (in  the 
restlessness  of  my  mood)  to  and  fro  the  spacious  rooms  which 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         319 

formed  Lady  Roseville's  apartments  of  reception.  At  the 
far  end  was  a  small  boudoir,  where  none  but  the  goddess's  fav- 
ored few  were  admitted.  As  I  approached  towards  it  I  heard 
voices,  and  the  next  moment  recogiiized  the  deep  tones  of 
Glanville.  I  turned  hastily  away,  lest  I  should  overhear  the 
discourse  ;  but  I  had  scarcely  got  three  steps  when  the  con- 
vulsed sound  of  a  woman's  sob  came  upon  my  ear.  Shortly  after- 
wards steps  descended  the  stairs,  and  the  street-door  opened. 

The  minutes  rolled  on,  and  I  became  impatient.  The  ser- 
vant re-entered — Lady  Roseville  was  so  suddenly  and  seriously 
indisposed  that  she  was  unable  to  see  me.  I  left  the  house, 
and  full  of  bewildered  conjectures  returned  to  my  apartments. 

The  next  day  was  one  of  the  most  important  in  my  life.  I 
was  standing  wistfully  by  my  fireplace,  listening  with  the  most 
mournful  attention  to  a  broken-winded  hurdy-gurdy,  stationed 
opposite  to  my  window,  when  Bedos  announced  Sir  Reginald 
Glanville.  It  so  happened,  that  I  had  that  morning  taken  the 
miniature  I  had  found  in  the  fatal  field  from  the  secret  place 
in  which  I  usually  kept  it,  in  order  closely  to  examine  it,  lest 
any  proof  of  its  owner,  more  convincing  than  the  initials  and 
Thornton's  interpretation,  might  be  discovered  by  a  minuter 
investigation. 

The  picture  was  lying  on  the  table  when  Glanville  entered  ; 
my  first  impulse  was  to  seize  and  secrete  it  ;  my  second  to  suffer 
it  to  remain,  and  to  watch  the  effect  the  sight  of  it  might  pro- 
duce. In  following  the  latter  I  thought  it,  however,  as  well  to 
choose  my  own  time  for  discovering  the  miniature  ;  and,  as  I 
moved  to  the  table,  I  threw  my  handkerchief  carelessly  over 
it.  Glanville  came  up  to  me  at  once,  and  his  countenance, 
usually  close  and  reserved  in  its  expression,  assumed  a  franker 
and  bolder  aspect. 

"  You  have  lately  changed  towards  me."  he  said  ;  "mindful 
of  our  former  friendship,  I  have  come  to  demand  the  reason." 

"Can  Sir  Reginald  Glanville's  memory,"  answered  I,  "sup- 
ply him  with  no  probable  cause  ?  " 

"It  can,"  replied  Glanville,  "but  I  would  not  trust  only  to 
that.  Sit  down,  Pelham,  and  listen  to  me.  I  can  read  your 
thoughts,  and  I  might  affect  to  despise  their  import — perhaps 
two  years  since  I  should — at  present  I  can  pity  and  excuse 
them.  I  have  come  to  you  now,  in  the  love  and  confidence  of 
our  early  days,  to  claim,  as  then,  your  good  opinion  and 
esteem.  If  you  require  any  explanation  at  my  hands,  it  shall 
be  given.  My  days  are  approaching  their  end.  I  have  made 
up  my  accounts  with  others— I  would  do  so  with  you.  I  con- 


320  PELHAM  J 

fess  that  I  would  fain  leave  behind  me  in  your  breast  the  same 
affectionate  remembrance  I  might  heretofore  have  claimed, 
and  which,  whatever  be  your  suspicions,  I  have  done  nothing 
to  forfeit.  I  have,  moreover,  a  dearer  interest  than  my  own 
to  consult  in  this  wish — you  color,  Pelham — you  know  to 
whom  I  allude  ;  for  my  sister's  sake,  if  not  for  my  own,  you 
will  hear  me." 

Glanville  paused  for  a  moment.  I  raised  the  handkerchief 
from  the  miniature  ;  I  pushed  the  latter  towards  him  :  "  Do 
you  remember  this  ?  "  said  I,  in  a  low  tone. 

With  a  wild  cry,  which  thrilled  through  my  heart,  Glanville 
sprang  forward  and  seized  it.  He  gazed  eagerly  and  intensely 
upon  it,  and  his  cheek  flushed,  his  eyes  sparkled,  his  breast 
heaved.  The  next  moment  he  fell  back  in  his  chair,  in  one 
of  the  half-swoons  to  which,  upon  a  sudden  and  violent  emo- 
tion, the  debilitating  effects  of  his  disease  subjected  him. 

Before  I  could  come  to  his  assistance  he  had  recovered. 
He  looked  wildly  and  fiercely  upon  me.  "  Speak,"  he  cried, 
"speak — where  got  you  this — where?  Answer  for  mercy's 
sake  ?  " 

"  Recollect  yourself,"  said  I  sternly.  "  I  found  that  token 
of  your  presence  upon  the  spot  where  Tyrrell  was  murdered," 

"  True,  true,"  said  Glanville  slowly,  and  in  an  absent  and 
abstracted  tone.  He  ceased  abruptly  and  covered  his  face 
with  his  hands  ;  from  this  attitude  he  started  with  some  sud- 
den impulse. 

"  And  tell  me,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  inward,  exulting  tone, 
"  was  it — was  it  red  with  the  blood  of  the  murdered  man  ?  " 

"Wretch  !  "  I  exclaimed,  "do  you  glory  in  your  guilt  ?" 

"  Hold  !  "  said  Glanville,  rising,  with  an  altered  and  haughty 
air  ;  "  it  is  not  to  your  accusations  that  I  am  now  to  listen  : 
if  you  are  yet  desirous  of  weighing  their  justice  before  you 
decide  upon  them,  you  will  have  the  opportunity  ;  I  shall 
be  at  home  at  ten  this  night  ;  come  to  me,  and  you  shall  know 
all.  At  present,  the  sight  of  this  picture  has  unnerved  me. 
Shall  I  see  you  ?  " 

I  made  no  other  rejoinder  than  the  brief  expression  of  my 
assent,  and  Glanville  instantly  left  the  room. 

During  the  whole  of  that  day  my  mind  was  wrought  up  into 
a  state  of  feverish  and  preternatural  excitement.  1  could  not 
remain  in  the  same  spot  for  an  instant  :  my  pulse  beat  with 
the  irregularity  of  delirium.  For  the  last  hour  I  placed  my 
watch  before  me,  and  kept  my  eyes  constantly  fixed  upon  it. 
It  was  not  only  Glanville's  confession  that  I  was  to  hear  ;  my 


Oft,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         3^1 

own  fate,  my  future  connection  with  Ellen,  rested  upon  the 
story  of  that  night.  For  myself,  when  I  call  to  mind  Glan- 
ville's  acknowledgment  of  the  picture,  and  his  slow  and  invol- 
untary remembrance  of  the  spot  where  it  was  found,  I  scarcely 
allowed  my  temper,  sanguine  as  it  was,  to  hope. 

Some  minutes  before  the  hour  of  ten  I  repaired  to  Glan- 
ville's  house.  He  was  alone,  the  picture  was  before  him. 

I  drew  my  chair  towards  him  in  silence,  and,  accidentally 
lifting  up  my  eyes,  encountered  the  opposite  mirror.  I  started 
at  my  own  face  ;  the  intensity  and  fearfulness  of  my  interest 
had  rendered  it  even  more  hueless  than  that  of  my  companion. 

There  was  a  pause  for  some  moments,  at  the  end  of  which 
Glanville  thus  began. 

CHAPTER  LXXIV. 

"  I  do  but  hide 

Under  these  words,  like  embers,  every  spark 
Of  that  which  has  consumed  me.     Quick  and  dark 
The  grave  is  yawning  ;  as  its  roof  shall  cover 
My  limbs  with  dust   and  worms,  under  and  over, 
So  let  oblivion  hide  this  grief." — -Julian  and  Maddalo. 
****** 

"  With  thee  the  very  future  fled, 
I  stand  amid  the  past  alone, 
A  tomb  which  still  shall  guard  the  dead, 

Though  every  earthlier   trace  be  flown  ; 
A  tomb  o'er  which  the  weeds  that  love 

Decay — their  wild  luxuriance  wreathe  ! 
The  cold  and  callous  stone  above — 
And  only  thou  and  Death  beneath." 

— From  Unpublished  Poems  by . 

THE  HISTORY  OF  SIR  REGINALD  GLANVILLE. 

"You  remember  my  character  at  school — the  difficulty  with 
which  you  drew  me  from  the  visionary  and  abstracted  lone- 
liness which,  even  at  that  time,  was  more  consonant  to  my 
taste,  than  all  the  sports  and  society  resorted  to  by  other  boys  ; 
and  the  deep  and,  to  you,  inexplicable  delight  with  which  I 
returned  to  my  reveries  and  solitude  again.  That  character  has 
continued  through  life  the  same  ;  circumstances  have  strength- 
ened, not  altered,  it.  So  has  it  been  with^w*/  the  temper,  the 
habits,  the  tastes,  so  strongly  contrasted  with  mine  in  boy- 
hood, have  lost  nothing  of  that  contrast.  Your  ardor  for  the 
various  ambition  of  life  is  still  the  antipodes  to  my  indifference  : 
your  daring,  restless,  thoughtful  resolution  in  the  pursuit  still 


322  PELHAM  ; 

shames  my  indolence  and  abstraction.  You  are  still  the  votary 
of  the  world,  but  will  become  its  conqueror — I  its  fugitive — 
and  shall  die  its  victim. 

"  After  we  parted  at  school,  I    went    for  a   short  time  to  a 

tutor's  in shire.     Of  this  place  I   soon    grew  weary  ;  and, 

my  father's  death  rendering  me  in  a  great  measure  my  own 
roaster,  I  lost  no  time  in  leaving  it.  J  was  seized  with  that 
mania  for  travel  common  enough  to  all  persons  of  my  youth 
and  disposition.  My  mother  allowed  me  an  almost  unlimited 
command  over  the  fortune  eventually  to  be  my  own  ;  and, 
yielding  to  my  wishes,  rather  than  her  fears,  she  suffered  me, 
at  the  age  of  eighteen,  to  set  out  for  the  Continent  alone. 
Perhaps  the  quiet  and  reserve  of  my  character  made  her  think 
me  less  exposed  to  the  dangers  of  youth  than  if  I  had  been  of 
a  more  active  and  versatile  temper.  This  is  no  uncommon 
mistake  ;  a  serious  and  contemplative  disposition  is,  however, 
often  the  worst  formed  to  acquire  readily  the  knowledge  of  the 
world,  and  always  the  most  calculated  to  suffer  deeply  from 
the  experience. 

"  I  took  up  my  residence  for  some  time  at  Spa.  It  is,  you 
know,  perhaps,  a  place  dull  enough  to  make  gambling  the  only 
amusement  ;  every  one  played,  and  I  did  not  escape  the  con- 
tagion ;  nor  did  I  wish  it ;  for,  like  the  minister  Godolphin, 
my  habitual  silence  made  me  love  gaming  for  its  own  sake, 
because  it  was  a  substitute  for  conversation.  This  pursuit 
brought  me  acquainted  with  Mr.  Tyrrell,  who  was  then  staying 
at  Spa  ;  he  had  not,  at  that  time,  quite  dissipated  his  fortune, 
but  was  daily  advancing  towards  so  desirable  a  consummation. 
A  gambler's  acquaintance  is  readily  made,  and  easily  kept, — 
provided  you  gamble  too. 

"  We  became  as  intimate  as  the  reserve  of  my  habits  ever 
suffered  me  to  become  with  any  one  but  you.  He  was  many 
years  older  than  I,  had  seen  a  great  deal  of  the  world,  had 
mixed  much  in  its  best  societies,  and  at  that  time,  whatever 
was  the  vulgarity  of  his  mind,  had  little  of  the  coarseness  of 
manner  which  very  soon  afterwards  distinguished  him  ;  evil 
communication  works  rapidly  in  its  results.  Our  acquaintance 
was,  therefore,  natural  enough,  especially  when  it  is  considered 
that  my  purse  was  entirely  at  his  disposal  ;  for  borrowing  is 
'  twice  blessed,'  in  him  that  takes  and  him  that  gives — the 
receiver  becomes  complaisant  and  conceding,  and  the  lender 
thinks  favorably  of  one  he  has  obliged. 

"  We  parted  at  Spa  under  a  mutual  promise  to  write.  I  for- 
get if  this  promise  was  kept — probably  not ;  we  were  not, 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         323 

however,  the  worst  friends  for  being  bad  correspondents.  I 
continued  my  travels  for  about  another  year  :  I  then  returned 
to  England,  the  same  melancholy  and  dreaming  enthusiast  as 
before.  Jt  is  true  that  we  are  the  creatures  of  circumstances  ; 
but  circumstances  are  also,  in  a  great  measure,  the  creatures 
of  us.  I  mean,  they  receive  their  influences  from  the  previous 
bent  of  our  own  minds ;  what  raises  one  would  depress 
another,  and  what  vitiates  my  neighbor  might  correct  me. 
Thus  the  experience  of  the  world  makes  some  persons  more 
worldly,  others  more  abstracted  ;  and  the  indulgence  of  the 
senses  becomes  a  violence  to  one  mind,  and  a  second  nature  to 
another.  As  for  me,  I  had  tasted  all  the  pleasures  youth  and 
opulence  can  purchase,  and  was  more  averse  to  them  than 
ever.  I  had  mixed  with  many  varieties  of  men — I  was  still 
more  riveted  to  the  monotony  of  self. 

"  I  cannot  hope,  while  I  mention  these  peculiarities,  that  I 
am  a  very  uncommon  character :  I  believe  the  present  age  has 
produced  many  such.  Some  time  hence  it  will  be  a  curious 
inquiry  to  ascertain  the  causes  of  that  acute  and  sensitive 
morbidity  of  mind  which  has  been,  and  still  is,  so  epidemic  a 
disease.  You  know  me  well  enough  to  believe,  that  I  am  not 
fond  of  the  cant  of  assuming  an  artificial  character,  or  of 
creating  a  fictitious  interest ;  and  I  am  far  from  wishing  to 
impose  upon  you  a  malady  of  constitution  for  a  dignity  of 
mind.  You  must  pardon  my  prolixity.  I  own  that  it  is  very 
painful  to  me  to  come  to  the  main  part  of  my  confessions,  and 
I  am  endeavoring  to  prepare  myself  by  lingering  over  the 
prelude." 

Glanville  paused  here  for  a  few  moments.  In  spite  of  the 
sententious  coolness  with  which  he  pretended  to  speak,  I  saw 
that  he  was  powerfully  and  painfully  affected. 

"  Well,"  he  continued,  "to  resume  the  thread  of  my  nar- 
rative ;  after  I  had  stayed  some  weeks  with  my  mother  and 
sister,  I  took  advantage  of  their  departure  for  the  Continent, 
and  resolved  to  make  a  tour  through  England.  Rich  people, 
and  I  have  always  been  very  rich,  grow  exceedingly  tired  of 
the  embarrassment  of  their  riches.  I  seized  with  delight  at  the 
idea  of  travelling  without  carriages  and  servants  ;  I  took  merely 
a  favorite  horse,  and  the  black  dog,  poor  Terror,  which  you 
see  now  at  my  feet. 

"The  day  I  commenced  this  plan  was  to  me  the  epoch  of  a 
new  and  terrible  existence.  However,  you  must  pardon  me  if 
I  am  not  here  sufficiently  diffuse.  Suffice  it,  that  I  became 
acquainted  with  a  being  whom,  for  the  first  and  only  time  in 


324  PELHAM  ; 

my  life,  I  loved  !  This  miniature  attempts  to  express  her  like- 
ness ;  the  initials  at  the  back,  interwoven  with  my  own,  are  hers." 

"Yes,"  said  I  incautiously,  " they  are  the  initials  of  Ger- 
trude Douglas." 

"  What  !  "  cried  Glanville,  in  a  loud  tone,  which  he  instantly 
checked,  and  continued  in  an  indrawn,  muttered  whisper  : 
"How  long  is  it  since  I  heard  that  name  !  And  now — now — " 
he  broke  off  abruptly,  and  then  said,  with  a  calmer  voice,  "  I 
know  not  how  you  have  learnt  her  name  ;  perhaps  you  will 
explain?  " 

"  From  Thornton,"  said  I. 

"  And  has  he  told  you  more  ?"  cried  Glanville,  as  if  gasping 
for  breath — "  the  history — the  dreadful — " 

"  Not  a  word,"  said  I  hastily;  "he  was  with  me  when  I 
found  the  picture,  and  he  explained  the  initials." 

"  It  is  well !  "  answered  Glanville,  recovering  himself  ;  "you 
will  see  presently  if  I  have  reason  to  love  that  those  foul  and 
sordid  lips  should  profane  the  story  I  am  about  to  relate. 
Gertrude  was  an  only  daughter  ;  though  of  gentle  blood,  she 
was  no  match  for  me,  either  in  rank  or  fortune.  Did  I  say 
just  now  that  the  world  had  not  altered  me  ?  See  my  folly  ; 
one  year  before  I  saw  her,  and  I  should  not  have  thought  her, 
but  myself,  honored  by  a  marriage  ;  twelve  little  months  had 
sufficed  to — God  forgive  me  !  I  took  advantage  of  her  love — 
her  youth — her  innocence — she  fled  with  me — but  not  to  the 
altar  !  " 

Again  Glanville  paused,  and  again,  by  a  violent  effort,  con- 
quered his  emotion,  and  proceeded  : 

"  Never  let  vice  be  done  by  halves  ;  never  let  a  man  invest  all 
his  purer  affections  in  the  woman  he  ruins  ;  never  let  him  cherish 
the  kindness,  if  he  gratifies  the  selfishness,  of  his  heart.  A 
profligate  who  really  loves  his  victim  is  one  of  the  most  wretched 
of  beings.  In  spite  of  my  successful  and  triumphant  passion  ; 
in  spite  of  the  first  intoxication  of  possession,  and  the  better 
and  deeper  delight  of  a  reciprocity  of  thought,  feeling,  sym- 
pathy, for  the  first  time,  found  ;  in  the  midst  of  all  the  luxuries 
my  wealth  could  produce,  and  of  the  voluptuous  and  spring- 
like hues  with  which  youth,  health,  and  first  love,  clothe  the 
earth  which  the  loved  one  treads,  and  the  air  which  she  inhales  ; 
in  spite  of  these,  in  spite  of  all,  I  was  anything  but  happy.  If 
Gertrude's  cheek  seemed  a  shade  more  pale,  or  her  eyes  less 
bright,  I  remembered  the  sacrifice  she  had  made  me,  and 
believed  that  she  felt  it  too.  It  was  in  vain,  that,  with  the 
tender  and  generous  devotion — never  found  but  in  woman — • 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         325 

she  assured  me  that  my  love  was  a  recompense  for  all  ;  the 
more  touching  was  her  tenderness,  the  more  poignant  was  my 
remorse.  I  never  loved  but  her ;  I  have  never,  therefore, 
entered  into  the  commonplace  of  passion,  and  I  cannot,  even 
to  this  day,  look  upon  her  sex  as  ours  do  in  general.  I  thought, 
I  think  so  still,  that  ingratitude  to  a  woman  is  often  a  more 
odious  offence — I  am  sure  it  contains  a  more  painful  penalty — 
than  ingratitude  to  a  man.  But  enough  of  this  :  if  you  know 
me,  you  can  penetrate  the  nature  of  my  feelings  :  if  not,  it  is 
in  vain  to  expect  your  sympathy. 

"  I  never  loved  living  long  in  one  place.  We  travelled  over 
the  greater  part  of  England  and  France.  What  must  be  the 
enchantment  of  love  when  accompanied  with  innocence  and 
joy,  since,  even  in  sin,  in  remorse,  in  grief,  it  brings  us  a  rap- 
ture to  which  all  other  things  are  tame  !  Oh  !  those  were 
moments  steeped  in  the  very  elixir  of  life  ;  overflowing  with 
the  hoarded  fondness  and  sympathies  of  hearts  too  full  for 
words,  and  yet  too  agitated  for  silence,  when  we  journeyed 
alone,  and  at  night,  and,  as  the  shadows  and  stillness  of  the 
waning  hours  gathered  round  us,  drew  closer  to  each  other, 
and  concentrated  this  breathing  world  in  the  deep  and  embrac- 
ing sentiment  of  our  mutual  love  !  It  was  then  that  I  laid  my 
burning  temples  on  her  bosom,  and  felt,  while  my  hand  clasped 
hers,  that  my  visions  were  realized,  and  my  wandering  spirit 
had  sunk  unto  its  rest. 

"  I  remember  well  that,  one  night,  we  were  travelling  through 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  parts  of  England  ;  it  was  in  the  very 
height  and  flush  of  summer,  and  the  moon  (what  scene  of  love — 
whether  in  reality  or  romance — has  anything  of  tenderness, 
or  passion,  or  divinity,  where  her  light  is  not ! )  filled  the 
intense  skies  of  June  with  her  presence,  and  cast  a  sadder  and 
paler  beauty  over  Gertrude's  cheek.  She  was  always  of  a 
melancholy  and  despondent  temper ;  perhaps,  for  that  reason, 
she  was  more  congenial  to  my  own  ;  and  when  I  gazed  upon 
her  that  night,  I  was  not  surprised  to  see  her  eyes  filled  with 
tears.  '  You  will  laugh  at  me,'  she  said,  as  I  kissed  them  off 
and  inquired  into  the  cause  ;  '  but  I  feel  a  presentiment  that  I 
cannot  shake  off  ;  it  tells  me  that  you  will  travel  this  road 
again  before  many  months  are  passed,  and  that  I  shall  not  be 
with  you,  perhaps  not  upon  the  earth.'  She  was  right  in  all  her 
forebodings,  but  the  suggestion  of  her  death — that  came  later. 

"  We  took  up  our  residence  for  some  time  at  a  beautiful 
situation,  a  short  distance  from  a  small  watering-place.  At  this 
watering-place,  to  my  great  surprise,  I  met  with  Tyrrell.  He 


326  PELHAM  ; 

had  come  there  partly  to  see  a  relation  from  whom  he  had 
some  expectations,  and  partly  to  recruit  his  health,  which  was 
much  broken  by  the  irregularities  and  excesses.  I  could  not 
refuse  to  renew  my  old  acquaintance  with  him  ;  and,  indeed, 
I  thought  him  too  much  of  a  man  of  the  world,  and  of  society, 
to  feel  with  him  that  particular  delicacy  in  regard  to  Gertrude 
which  made  me  in  general  shun  all  intercourse  with  my 
former  friends.  He  was  in  great  pecuniary  embarrassment — 
much  more  deeply  so  than  I  then  imagined  ;  for  I  believed  the 
embarrassment  to  be  only  temporary.  However,  my  purse  was 
then,  as  before,  at  his  disposal,  and  he  did  not  scruple  to  avail 
himself  very  largely  of  my  offers.  He  came  frequently  to  our 
house  ;  and  poor  Gertrude,  who  thought  I  had,  for  her  sake, 
made  a  real  sacrifice  in  renouncing  my  acquaintance,  endeav- 
ored to  conquer  her  usual  diffidence,  and  that  more  painful 
feeling  than  diffidence  natural  to  her  station,  and  even  to 
affect  a  pleasure  in  the  society  of  my  friend,  which  she  was 
very  far  from  feeling. 

"I  was  detained  at for  several  weeks  by  Gertrude's 

confinement.  The  child — happy  being  ! — died  a  week  after  its 
birth.  Gertrude  was  still  in  bed,  and  unable  to  leave  it,  when 
I  received  a  letter  from  Ellen,  to  say  that  my  mother  was  then 
staying  at  Toulouse,  and  dangerously  ill ;  if  I  wished  once 
to  see  her,  Ellen  besought  me  to  lose  no  time  in  setting  off  for 
the  Continent.  You  may  imagine  my  situation,  or  rather  you 
cannot,  for  you  cannot  conceive  the  smallest  particle  of  that 
intense  love  I  bore  to  Gertrude.  To  you — to  any  other  man — 
it  might  seem  no  extraordinary  hardship  to  leave  her  even 
for  an  uncertain  period  ;  to  me  it  was  like  tearing  away  the 
very  life  from  my  heart. 

"I  procured  her  a  sort  of  half  companion,  and  half  nurse  ; 
I  provided  for  her  everything  that  the  most  anxious  and  fear- 
ful love  could  suggest  ;  and,  with  a  mind  full  of  forebodings 
too  darkly  to  be  realized  hereafter,  I  hastened  to  the  nearest 
seaport,  and  set  sail  for  France. 

"When  I  arrived  at  Toulouse  my  mother  was  much  better, 
but  still  in  a  very  uncertain  and  dangerous  state  of  health.  I 
stayed  with  her  for  more  than  a  month,  during  which  time 
every  post  brought  me  a  line  from  Gertrude,  and  bore  back  a 
message  from  'my  heart  to  hers'  in  return.  This  was  no  mean 
consolation,  more  especially  when  each  letter  spoke  of  increasing 
health  and  strength.  At  the  month's  end  I  was  preparing  to 
return — my  mother  was  slowly  recovering,  and  I  no  longer  had 
any  fears  on  her  account ;  but,  there  are  links  in  our  destiny 


OR,  ADVENTURES    OF    A    GENTLEMAN.  327 

fearfully  interwoven  with  each  other,  and  ending  only  in  the 
anguish  of  our  ultimate  doom.  The  day  before  that  fixed  for 
my  departure  I  had  been  into  a  house  where  an  epidemic 
disease  raged ;  that  night  I  complained  of  oppressive  and 
deadly  illness — before  morning  I  was  in  a  high  fever. 

"  During  the  time  I  was  sensible  of  my  state,  I  wrote  con- 
stantly to  Gertrude,  and  carefully  concealed  my  illness ;  but 
for  several  days  I  was  delirious.  When  I  recovered,  I  called 
eagerly  for  my  letters — there  were  none — none!  I  could  not 
believe  I  was  yet  awake ;  but  days  still  passed  on,  and  not 
a  line  from  England  —  from  Gertrude.  The  instant  I  was 
able  I  insisted  upon  putting  horses  to  my  carriage  ;  I  could 
bear  no  longer  the  torture  of  my  suspense.  By  the  most  rapid 
journeys  my  debility  would  allow  me  to  bear,  I  arrived  in 

England.  I  travelled  down  to by  the  same  road  that 

I  had  gone  over  with  her !  The  words  of  her  foreboding,  at 
that  time,  sank  like  ice  into  my  heart,  'You  will  travel  this 
road  again  before  many  months  are  past,  and  I  shall  not  be 
with  you  ;  perhaps  I  shall  not  be  upon  the  earth  ! '  At  that 
thought  I  could  have  called  unto  the  grave  to  open  for  me. 
Her  unaccountable  and  lengthened  silence,  in  spite  of  all  the 
urgency  and  entreaties  of  my  letters  for  a  reply,  filled  me  with 
presentiments  the  most  fearful.  Oh,  God — oh,  God,  they  were 
nothing  to  the  truth  ! 

"At  last  I  arrived  at :  my  carriage  stopped  at  the  very 

house — my  whole  frame  was  perfectly  frozen  with  dread — I 
trembled  from  limb  to  limb — the  ice  of  a  thousand  winters 
seemed  curdling  through  my  blood.  The  bell  rang — once, 
twice — no  answer  ;  I  would  have  leaped  out  of  the  carriage  ;  I 
would  have  forced  an  entrance,  but  I  was  unable  to  move.  A 
man  fettered  and  spellbound  by  an  incubus  is  less  helpless  than 
I  was.  At  last  an  old  female  I  had  never  seen  before  appeared. 

" '  Where  is  she  ?  How  ! — '  I  could  utter  no  more — my 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  inquisitive  and  frightened  counte- 
nance opposite  to  my  own.  Those  eyes,  I  thought,  might  have 
said  all  that  my  lips  could  not ;  I  was  deceived — the  old 
woman  understood  me  no  more  than  I  did  her  :  another  person 
appeared — I  recognized  the  face :  it  was  that  of  a  girl,  who 
had  been  one  of  our  attendants.  Will  you  believe,  that  at  that 
sight,  the  sight  of  one  I  had  seen  before,  and  could  associate 
with  the  remembrance  of  the  breathing,  the  living,  the  present 
Gertrude,  a  thrill  of  joy  flashed  across  me — my  fears  seemed 
to  vanish — my  spell  to  cease  ! 

"  I  sprang  from  the  carriage  ;  I  caught  the  girl  by  the  robe. 


328  PELHAM  ; 

'Your  mistress,'  said  I,  'your  mistress — she  is  well — she  is 
alive — speak,  speak  ?'  The  girl  shrieked  out;  my  eagerness, 
and,  perhaps,  my  emaciated  and  altered  appearance,  terrified 
her ;  but  she  had  the  strong  nerves  of  youth,  and  was  soon  re- 
assured. She  requested  me  to  step  in,  and  she  would  tell  me 
all.  My  wife  (Gertrude  always  went  by  that  name)  was  alive, 
and,  she  believed,  well,  but  she  had  left  that  place  some  weeks 
since.  Trembling,  and  still  fearful,  but  in  heaven,  compara- 
tively to  my  former  agony,  I  followed  the  girl  and  the  old 
woman  into  the  house. 

"  The  former  got  me  some  water.  '  Now,'  said  I,  when  I  had 
drunk  a  long  and  hearty  draught,  'I  am  ready  to  hear  all — my 
wife  has  left  this  house,  you  say — for  what  place  ? '  The  girl 
hesitated  and  looked  down ;  the  old  woman,  who  was  some- 
what deaf,  arrd  did  not  rightly  understand  my  questions,  or  the 
nature  of  the  personal  interest  I  had  in  the  reply,  answered : 
'  What  does  the  gentleman  want  ?  the  poor  young  lady  who  was 
last  here  ?  Lord  help  her  !  " 

"'What  of  her?'  I  called  out  in  anew  alarm.  'What  of 
her?  Where  has  she  gone?  Who  took  her  away ?' 

' '  Who  took  her  ! '  mumbled  the  old  woman,  fretful  at  my 
impatient  tone  ;  '  Who  took  her  ?  Why,  the  mad  doctor  to  be  sure! ' 

"  I  heard  no  more ;  my  frame  could  support  no  longer  the 
agonies  my  mind  had  undergone  ;  I  fell  lifeless  on  the  ground. 

"  When  I  recovered  it  was  at  the  dead  of  the  night.  I  was 
in  bed,  the  old  woman  and  the  girl  were  at  my  side.  I  rose 
slowly  and  calmly.  You  know,  all  men  who  have  ever  suffered 
much  know  the  strange  anomalies  of  despair — the  quiet  of  our 
veriest  anguish.  Deceived  by  my  bearing,  I  learned  by  degrees 
from  my  attendants  that  Gertrude  had  some  weeks  since  be- 
trayed certain  symptoms  of  insanity  ;  that  these,  in  a  very  few 
hours,  arose  to  an  alarming  pitch.  From  some  reason  the 
woman  could  not  explain,  she  had,  a  short  time  before,  dis- 
carded the  companion  I  had  left  with  her  ;  she  was,  therefore, 
alone  among  servants.  They  sent  for  the  ignorant  practition- 
ers of  the  place  ;  they  tried  their  nostrums  without  success ; 
her  madness  increased  ;  her  attendants,  with  that  superstitious 
horror  of  insanity  common  to  the  lower  classes,  became  more 
and  more  violently  alarmed  ;  the  landlady  insisted  on  her  re- 
moval ;  and — and — I  told  you,  Pelham — 1  told  you — they  sent 
her  away — sent  her  to  a  madhouse  !  All  this  I  listened  to  ! — 
all !  Ay,  and  patiently.  I  noted  down  the  address  of  her  pres- 
ent abode  ;  it  was  about  the  distance  of  twenty  miles  from 
*** — ,  J  ordered  fresh  horses  and  set  off  immediately. 


6k,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         329 

"  I  arrived  there  at  daybreak.  It  was  a  large,  old  house, 
which,  like  a  French  hotel,  seemed  to  have  no  visible  door ; 
dark  and  gloomy,  the  pile  appeared  worthy  of  the  purpose  to 
which  it  was  devoted.  It  was  a  long  time  before  we  aroused 
any  one  to  answer  our  call  ;  at  length  I  was  ushered  into  a  small 
parlor — how  minutely  I  remember  every  article  in  the  room  ! 
What  varieties  there  are  in  the  extreme  passions  !  Sometimes 
the  same  feeling  will  deaden  all  the  senses,  sometimes  render 
them  a  hundredfold  more  acute  ! 

"  At  last  a  man  of  a  smiling  and  rosy  aspect  appeared.  He 
pointed  to  a  chair — rubbed  his  hands — and  begged  me  to  un- 
fold my  business  ;  few  words  sufficed  to  do  that.  I  requested 
to  see  his  patient ;  I  demanded  by  what  authority  she  had  been 
put  under  his  care.  The  man's  face  altered.  He  was  but  lit- 
tle pleased  with  the  nature  of  my  visit.  '  The  lady,'  he  said 
coolly,  '  had  been  entrusted  to  his  care,  with  an  adequate  re- 
muneration, by  Mr.  Tyrrell ;  without  that  gentleman's  permis- 
sion, he  could  not  think  even  of  suffering  me  to  see  her.'  I 
controlled  my  passion  ;  I  knew  something,  if  not  of  the  nature 
of  private  madhouses,  at  least  of  that  of  mankind.  I  claimed 
his  patient  as  my  wife  ;  I  expressed  myself  obliged  by  his  care, 
and  begged  his  acceptance  of  a  further  remuneration,  which  I 
tendered,  and  which  was  eagerly  accepted.  The  way  was  now 
cleared — there  is  no  hell  to  which  a  golden  branch  will  not  win 
your  admittance. 

"The  man  detained  me  no  longer  ;  he  hastened  to  lead  the 
way.  We  passed  through  various  long  passages  :  sometimes 
the  low  moan  of  pain  and  weakness  came  upon  my  ear,  some- 
times the  confused  murmur  of  the  idiot's  drivelling  soliloquy. 
From  one  passage,  at  right  angles  with  the  one  through  which 
we  proceeded,  broke  a  fierce  and  thrilling  shriek  ;  it  sank  at 
once  into  silence — perhaps  beneath  the  lash  ! 

"We  were  now  in  a  different  department  of  the  building: 
all  was  silence — hushed,  deep,  breathless  :  this  seemed  to  me 
more  awful  than  the  terrible  sounds  I  had  just  heard.  My 
guide  went  slowly  on,  sometimes  breaking  the  stillness  of  the 
dim  gallery  by  the  jingle  of  his  keys,  sometimes  by  a  muttered 
panegyric  of  himself  and  his  humanity.  I  neither  heeded  nor 
answered  him. 

"We  read  in  the  annals  of  the  Inquisition,  of  every  limb, 
nerve,  sinew  of  the  victim,  being  so  nicely  and  accurately 
strained  to  their  utmost,  that  the  frame  would  not  bear  the  ad- 
ditional screwing  of  a  single  hair-breadth.  Such  seemed  my 
state.  We  came  to  a  small  door  at  the  right  hand  ;  it  was  the 


330  PELHAM  ; 

last  but  one  in  the  passage.  We  paused  before  it.  'Stop,' 
said  I,  'for  one  moment';  and  I  was  so  faint  and  sick  at  heart 
that  I  leaned  against  the  wall  to  recover  myself  before  I  let 
him  open  the  door :  when  he  did,  it  was  a  greater  relief  than  I 
can  express  to  that  see  all  was  utterly  dark.  'Wait,  sir,'  said 
the  guide,  as  he  entered  ;  and  a  sullen  noise  told  me  that  he  was 
unbarring  the  heavy  shutter. 

"  Slowly  the  gray  cold  light  of  the  morning  broke  in  :  a  dark 
figure  was  stretched  upon  a  wretched  bed,  at  the  far  end  of 
the  room.  She  raised  herself  at  the  sound.  She  turned  her 
face  towards  me  ;  I  did  not  fall,  nor  faint,  nor  shriek  ;  I  stood 
motionless,  as  if  fixed  into  stone  :  and  yet  it  was  Gertrude 
upon  whom  I  gazed.  Oh,  Heaven  !  Who  but  myself  could 
have  recognized  her?  Her  cheek  was  as  the  cheek  of  the 
dead — the  hueless  skin  clung  to  the  bone — the  eye  was  dull 
and  glassy  for  one  moment  ;  the  next  it  became  terribly  and 
preternaturally  bright,  but  not  with  the  ray  of  intellect,  or  con- 
sciousness, or  recognition.  She  looked  long  and  hard  at  me  ; 
a  voice,  hollow  and  broken,  but  which  still  penetrated  my 
heart,  came  forth  through  the  wan  lips,  that  scarcely  moved 
with  the  exertion.  'I  am  very  cold,'  it  said;  'but  if  I  com- 
plain, you  will  beat  me.'  She  fell  down  again  upon  the  bed, 
and  hid  her  face. 

"  My  guide,  who  was  leaning  carelessly  by  the  window,  turned 
to  me  with  a  sort  of  smirk  :  '  This  is  her  way,  sir,'  he  said  ; 
'  her  madness  is  of  a  very  singular  description  :  we  have)not,  as 
yet,  been  able  to  discover  how  far  it  extends  ;  sometimes  she 
seems  conscious  of  the  past,  sometimes  utterly  oblivious  of 
everything  :  for  days  she  is  perfectly  silent,  or,  at  least,  says 
nothing  more  than  you  have  just  heard  ;  but,  at  times,  she 
raves  so  violently,  that — that — but  I  never  use  force  where  it  can 
be  helped.' 

"I  looked  at  the  man,  but  I  could  not  answer,  unless  I  had 
torn  him  to  pieces  on  the  spot.  I  turned  away  hastily  from 
the  room  ;  but  I  did  not  quit  the  the  house  without  Gertrude — 
I  placed  her  in  the  carriage,  by  my  side,  notwithstanding  all 
the  protestations  and  fears  of  the  keeper  ;  these  were  readily 
silenced  by  the  sum  I  gave  him  ;  it  was  large  enough  to  have 
liberated  half  his  household.  In  fact,  I  gathered  from  his  con- 
versation that  Tyrrell  had  spoken  of  Gertrude  as  an  unhappy 
female  whom  he  himself  had  seduced,  and  would  now  be  rid 
of.  I  thank  you,  Pelham,  for  that  frown,  but  keep  your  indig- 
nation till  a  fitter  season  for  it. 

"  I  took  my  victim,  for  I  then  regarded  her  as  such,  to  a  se- 


CR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         331 

eluded  and  lonely  spot  ;  I  procured  for  her  whatever  advice 
England  could  afford  ;  all  was  in  vain.  Night  and  day  I  was 
by  her  side,  but  she  never,  for  a  moment,  seemed  to  recollect 
me  :  yet  were  there  times  of  fierce  and  overpowering  delirium, 
when  my  name  was  uttered  in  the  transport  of  the  most  pas- 
sionate enthusiasm  ;  when  my  features  as  absent,  though  not 
present,  were  recalled  and  dwelt  upon  with  all  the  minuteness 
of  the  most  faithful  detail  ;  and  I  knelt  by  her  in  all  those 
moments,  when  no  other  human  being  was  near,  and  clasped 
her  wan  hand,  and  wiped  the  dew  from  her  forehead,  and 
gazed  upon  her  convulsed  and  changing  face,  and  called  upon 
her  in  a  voice  which  could  once  have  allayed  her  wildest 
emotions  ;  and  had  the  agony  otseeing  her  eye  dwell  upon  me 
with  the  most  estranged  indifference,  or  the  most  vehement 
and  fearful  aversion.  But,  ever  and  anon,  she  uttered  words 
which  chilled  the  very  marrow  of  my  bones  ;  words  which  I 
would  not,  dared  not,  believe,  had  any  meaning  or  method  in 
their  madness,  but  which  entered  into  my  own  brain,  and 
preyed  there  like  the  devouring  of  a  fire.  There  was  a  truth 
in  those  ravings,  a  reason  in  that  incoherence  ;  and  my  cup 
was  not  yet  full. 

"  At  last  one  physician,  who  appeared  to  me  to  have  more 
knowledge  than  the  rest,  of  the  mysterious  workings  of  her 
dreadful  disease,  advised  me  to  take  her  to  the  scenes  of  her 
first  childhood  :  '  Those  scenes,'  said  he  justly, '  are  in  all  stages 
of  life  the  most  fondly  remembered  ;  and  I  have  noted,  that  in 
many  cases  of  insanity,  places  are  easier  recalled  than  persons  ; 
perhaps,  if  we  can  awaken  one  link  in  the  chain,  it  will  commu- 
nicate to  the  rest.' 

"  I  took  this  advice,  and  set  off  to  Norfolk.  Her  early  home 
was  not  many  miles  distant  from  the  churchyard  where  you  once 
met  me,  and  in  that  churchyard  her  mother  was  buried.  She 
had  died  before  Gertrude's  flight  ;  the  father's  death  had  fol- 
lowed it  :  perhaps  my  sufferings  were  a  just  retribution  !  The 
house  had  gone  into  other  hands,  and  I  had  no  difficulty  in 
engaging  it.  Thank  Heaven,  I  was  spared  the  pain  of  seeing 
any  of  Gertrude's  relations. 

"  It  was  night  when  we  moved  to  the  house.  I  had  placed 
within  the  room  where  she  used  to  sleep  all  the  furniture  and 
books,  with  which  it  appeared,  from  my  inquiries,  to  have  been 
formerly  filled.  We  laid  her  in  the  bed  that  had  held  that  faded 
and  altered  form  in  its  freshest  and  purest  years.  I  shrouded 
myself  in  one  corner  of  the  room,  and  counted  the  dull  minutes 
till  the  daylight  dawned.  I  pass  over  the  detail  of  my  recital ; 


332  PELHAM; 

the  experiment  partially  succeeded — would  to  God  that  it  had 
not  !  Would  that  she  had  gone  down  to  her  grave  with  her 
dreadful  secret  unrevealed  !  Would — but — " 

Here  Glanville's  voice  failed  him,  and  there  was  a  brief 
silence  before  he  recommenced. 

"  Gertrude  now  had  many  lucid  intervals  ;  but  these  my 
presence  were  always  sufficient  to  change  into  a  delirious  rav- 
ing, even  more  incoherent  than  her  insanity  had  ever  yet  been. 
She  would  fly  from  me  with  the  most  fearful  cries,  bury  her 
face  in  her  hands,  and  seem  like  one  oppressed  and  haunted  by 
a  supernatural  visitation,  as  long  as  I  remained  in  the  room  ; 
the  moment  I  left  her,  she  began,  though  slowly,  to  recover. 

"  This  was  to  me  the  bitterest  affliction  of  all — to  be  for- 
bidden to  nurse,  to  cherish,  to  tend  her,  was  like  taking  from 
me  my  last  hope  !  But  little  can  the  thoughtless  or  the  worldly 
dream  of  the  depths  of  a  real  love  ;  I  used  to  wait  all  day  by 
her  door,  and  it  was  luxury  enough  to  me  to  catch  her  accents, 
or  hear  her  move,  or  sigh,  or  even  weep  ;  and  all  night,  when 
she  could  not  know  of  my  presence,  I  used  to  lie  down  by  her 
bedside  ;  and  when  I  sank  into  a  short  and  convulsed  sleep,  I 
saw  her  once  more,  in  my  brief  and  fleeting  dreams,  in  all  the 
devoted  love,  and  glowing  beauty,  which  had  once  constituted 
the  whole  of  my  happiness,  and  my  world. 

"  One  day  I  had  been  called  from  my  post  by  her  door. 
They  came  to  me  hastily — she  was  in  strong  convulsions.  I  flew 
upstairs,  and  supported  her  in  my  arms  till  the  fits  had  ceased  : 
we  then  placed  her  in  bed  ;  she  never  rose  from  it  again  :  but 
on  that  bed  of  death,  the  words,  as  well  as  the  cause  of  her 
former  insanity,  were  explained — the  mystery  was  unravelled. 

"  It  was  a  still  and  breathless  night.  The  moon,  which  was 
at  its  decrease,  came  through  the  half-closed  shutters,  and, 
beneath  its  solemn  and  eternal  light,  she  yielded  to  my  entreaties, 
and  revealed  all.  The  man — my  friend — Tyrrell — had  polluted 
her  ear  with  his  addresses,  and  when  forbidden  the  house,  had 
bribed  the  woman  I  had  left  with  her  to  convey  his  letters  ;  she 
was  discharged-r-but  Tyrrell  was  no  ordinary  villain  ;  he  en- 
tered the  house  one  evening  when  no  one  but  Gertrude  was 
there.  Come  near  me,  Pelham — nearer — bend  down  your  ear — 
he  used  force,  violence  !  That  night  Gertrude's  senses  de- 
serted her — you  know  the  rest. 

"  The  moment  that  I  gathered  from  Gertrude's  broken 
sentences  their  meaning,  that  moment  the  demon  entered  into 
my  soul.  All  human  feelings  seemed  to  fly  from  my  heart  ;  it 
shrank  into  one  burning,  and  thirsty,  and  fiery  want — and  that 


Ok,  ADVENTURES   OF    A    GENTLEMAtf.  J33 

want  was  for  revenge  !  I  would  have  sprung  from  the  bed- 
side, but  Gertrude's  hand  clung  to  me,  and  detained  me ;  the 
damp,  chill  grasp,  grew  colder  and  colder — it  ceased — the  hand 
fell — I  turned — one  slight,  but  awful  shudder  went  over  that  face, 
made  yet  more  wan  by  the  light  of  the  waning  and  ghastly 
moon — one  convulsion  shook  the  limbs — one  murmur  passed 
the  falling  and  hueless  lips.  I  cannot  tell  you  the  rest — you 
know — you  can  guess  it. 

"  That  day  week  we  buried  her  in  the  lonely  churchyard — • 
where  she  had,  in  her  lucid  moments,  wished  to  lie — by  the  side 
of  her  mother." 

CHAPTER   LXXV. 

"  I  breathed, 

But  not  the  breath  of  human  life  ; 
A  serpent  round  my  heart  was  wreathed, 

And  stung  my  very  thought  to  strife." — The  Giaour. 

"  THANK  Heaven,  the  most  painful  part  of  my  story  is  at 
an  end.  You  will  now  be  able  to  account  for  our  meeting  in 

the  churchyard  at  .      I  secured   myself  a  lodging   at  a 

cottage  not  far  from  the  spot  which  held  Gertrude's  remains. 
Night  after  night  I  wandered  to  that  lonely  place,  and  longed 
for  a  couch  beside  the  sleeper,  whom  I  mourned  in  the  selfish- 
ness of  my  soul.  I  prostrated  myself  on  the  mound ;  I 
humbled  myself  to  tears.  In  the  overflowing  anguish  of  my 
heart  I  forgot  all  that  had  aroused  its  stormier  passions  into 
life.  Revenge,  hatred — all  vanished.  I  lifted  up  my  face  to 
the  tender  heavens  ;  I  called  aloud  to  the  silent  and  placid 
air  ;  and  when  I  turned  again  to  that  unconscious  mound,  I 
thought  of  nothing  but  the  sweetness  of  our  early  love,  and  the 
bitterness  of  her  early  death.  It  was  in  such  moments  that 
your  footstep  broke  upon  my  grief  ;  the  instant  others  had 
seen  me — other  eyes  penetrated  the  sanctity  of  my  regret — 
from  that  instant,  whatever  was  more  soft  and  holy  in  the 
passions  and  darkness  of  my  mind  seemed  to  vanish  away  like 
a  scroll.  I  again  returned  to  the  intense  and  withering  re- 
membrance which  was  henceforward  to  make  the  very  key  and 
pivot  of  my  existence.  I  again  recalled  the  last  night  of 
Gertrude's  life  ;  I  again  shuddered  at  the  low,  murmured 
sounds,  whose  dreadful  sense  broke  slowly  upon  my  soul.  I 
again  felt  the  cold,  cold,  slimy  grasp  of  those  wan  and  dying 
fingers  ;  and  I  again  nerved  my  heart  to  an  iron  strength,  and 
yowed  deep,  deep-rooted,  endless,  implacable  revenge. 


334 

"  The  morning  after  the  night  you  saw  me  I  left  my  abode. 
I  went  to  London,  and  attempted  to  methodize  my  plans  of 
vengeance.  The  first  thing  to  discover,  was  Tyrrell's  present 
residence.  By  accident  I  heard  he  was  at  Paris,  and,  within 
two  hours  of  receiving  the  intelligence,  I  set  off  for  that  city. 
On  arriving  there  the  habits  of  the  gambler  soon  discovered 
him  to  my  search.  I  saw  him  one  night  at  a  hell.  He  was 
evidently  in  distressed  circumstances,  and  the  fortune  of  the 
table  was  against  him.  Unperceived  by  him,  I  feasted  my 
eyes  on  his  changing  countenance,  as  those  deadly  and  wear- 
ing transitions  of  feeling,  only  to  be  produced  by  the  gaming 
table,  passed  over  it.  While  I  gazed  upon  him,  a  thought  of 
more  exquisite  and  refined  revenge  than  had  yet  occurred  to 
me  flashed  upon  my  mind.  Occupied  with  the  ideas  it  gave 
rise  to,  I  went  into  the  adjoining  room,  which  was  quite 
empty.  There  I  seated  myself,  and  endeavored  to  develop 
more  fully  the  rude  and  imperfect  outline  of  my  scheme. 

"The. arch  tempter  favored  me  with  a  trusty  coadjutor  in 
my  designs.  I  was  lost  in  a  revery  when  I  heard  myself 
accosted  by  name.  I  looked  up,  and  beheld  a  man  whom  I 

had  often  seen  with  Tyrrell,  both  at  Spa,  and  (the 

watering-place  where,  with  Gertrude,  I  had  met  Tyrrell).  He 
was  a  person  of  low  birth  and  character  ;  but  esteemed,  from 
his  love  of  coarse  humor  and  vulgar  enterprise,  a  man  of  in- 
finite parts — a  sort  of  Yorick — by  the  set  most  congenial  to 
Tyrrell's  tastes.  By  this  undue  reputation,  and  the  levelling 
habit  of  gaming,  to  which  he  was  addicted,  he  was  raised,  in 
certain  societies,  much  above  his  proper  rank  :  need  I  say 
that  this  man  was  Thornton  ?  I  was  but  slightly  acquainted 
with  him  ;  however,  he  accosted  me  cordially,  and  endeavored 
to  draw  me  into  conversation. 

' '  Have  you  seen  Tyrrell  ? '  said  he ;  '  he  is  at  it  again  ; 
what's  bred  in  the  bone,  you  know,  etc.'  I  turned  pale  with 
the  mention  of  Tyrrell's  name,  and  replied  very  laconically,  to 
what  purpose  I  forget.  'Ah  !  ah  ! '  rejoined  Thornton,  eyeing 
me  with  an  air  of  impertinent  familiarity  ;  '  I  see  you  have  not 

forgiven  him  ;  he  played  you  but  a  shabby  trick  at ;  se-: 

duced  your  mistress,  or  something  of  that  sort  ;  he  told  me  all 
about  it  :  pray,  how  is  the  poor  girl  now  ? ' 

"  I  made  no  reply  ;  I  sank  down  and  gasped  for  breath.  All 
I  had  suffered  seemed  nothing  to  the  indignity  I  then  endured. 
She — she — who  had  w/^been  my  pride — my  honor — life — to  be 
thus  spoken  of-— and —  I  could  not  pursue  the  idea.  I  rose 
hastily,  looked  at  Thornton  with  a  glance  which  might  have 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         335 

abashed  a  man  less  shameless  and  callous  than  himself,  and 
left  the  room. 

"  That  night,  as  I  tossed  restless  and  feverish  on  my  bed  of 
thorns,  I  saw  how  useful  Thornton  might  be  to  me  in  the 
prosecution  of  the  scheme  I  had  entered  into  ;  and  the  next 
morning  I  sought  him  out,  and  purchased  (no  very  difficult 
matter)  both  his  secrecy  and  assistance.  My  plan  of  vengeance, 
to  one  who  had  seen  and  observed  less  of  the  varieties  of 
human  nature  than  you  have  done,  might  seem  far-fetched  and 
unnatural  ;  for  while  the  superficial  are  ready  to  allow  eccen- 
tricity as  natural  in  the  coolness  of  ordinary  life,  they  never 
suppose  it  can  exist  in  the  heat  of  the  passions — as  if,  in  such 
moments,  anything  was  ever  considered  absurd  in  the  means 
which  was  favorable  to  the  end.  Were  the  secrets  of  one  pas- 
sionate and  irregulated  heart  laid  bare,  there  would  be  more 
romance  in  them  than  in  all  the  fables  which  we  turn  from  with 
incredulity  and  disdain,  as  exaggerated  and  overdrawn. 

"  Among  the  thousand  schemes  for  retribution  which  had 
chased  each  other  across  my  mind,  the  death  of  my  victim 
was  only  the  ulterior  object.  Death,  indeed — the  pang  of  one 
moment — appeared  to  me  but  very  feeble  justice  for  the  life  of 
lingering  and  restless  anguish  to  which  his  treachery  had  con- 
demned me  ;  but  my  penance,  my  doom,  I  could  have  forgiven  : 
it  was  the  fate  of  a  more  innocent  and  injured  Jjeing  which 
irritated  the  sting  and  fed  the  venom  of  my  revenge.  That  re- 
venge no  ordinary  punishment  could  appease.  If  fanaticism 
can  only  be  satisfied  by  the  rack  and  the  flames,  you  may 
readily  conceive  a  like  unappeasable  fury  in  a  hatred  so  deadly, 
so  concentrated,  and  so  just  as  mine  ;  and  if  fanaticism  persuades 
itself  into  a  virtue,  so  also  did  my  hatred. 

"  The  scheme  which  I  resolved  upon  was,  to  attach  Tyrrell 
more  and  more  to  the  gaming-table,  to  be  present  at  his  infat- 
uation, to  feast  my  eyes  upon  the  feverish  intensity  of  his  sus- 
pense ;  to  reduce  him,  step  by  step,  to  the  lowest  abyss  of 
poverty  ;  to  glut  my  soul  with  the  abjectness  and  humiliation 
of  his  penury  ;  to  strip  him  of  all  aid,  consolation,  sympathy, 
and  friendship  ;  to  follow  him,  unseen,  to  his  wretched  and 
squalid  home  ;  to  mark  the  struggles  of  the  craving  nature 
with  the  loathing  pride ;  and,  finally,  to  watch  the  [frame 
wear,  the  eye  sink,  the  lip  grow  livid,  and- all  the  terrible  and 
torturing  progress  of  gnawing  want,  to  utter  starvation.  Then, 
in  that  last  state,  but  not  before,  I  might  reveal  myself ;  stand 
by  the  hopeless  and  succorless  bed  of  death  ;  shriek  out  in 
the  dizzy  ear  a  name  which  could  treble  the  horrors  of 


33^ 

remembrance  ;  snatch  from  the  struggling  and  agonizing  con* 
science  the  last  plank,  the  last  straw,  to  which,  in  its  madness, 
it  could  cling,  and  blacken  the  shadows  of  departing  life  by 
opening  to  the  shuddering  sense  the  threshold  of  an  impatient 
and  yawning  hell. 

"  Hurried  away  by  the  unhallowed  fever  of  these  projects, 
I  thought  of  nothing  but  their  accomplishment.  I  employed 
Thornton,  who  still  maintained  his  intimacy  with  Tyrrell,  to 
decoy  him  more  and  more  to  the  gambling-house  ;  and,  as 
the  unequal  chances  of  the  public  table  were  not  rapid  enough 
in  their  termination  to  consummate  the  ruin  even  of  an  im- 
petuous and  vehement  gamester  like  Tyrrell  so  soon  as  my 
impatience  desired,  Thornton  took  every  opportunity  of  en- 
gaging him  in  private  play,  and  accelerating  my  object  by  the 
unlawful  arts  of  which  he  was  master.  My  enemy  was  every 
day  approaching  the  farthest  verge  of  ruin  ;  near  relations  he 
had  none,  all  his  distant  ones  he  had  disobliged  ;  all  his 
friends,  and  even  his  acquaintance,  he  had  fatigued  by  his  im- 
portunity, or  disgusted  by  his  conduct.  In  the  whole  world 
there  seemed  not  a  being  who  would  stretch  forth  a  helping 
hand  to  save  him  from  the  total  and  penniless  beggary  to 
which  he  was  hopelessly  advancing.  Out  of  the  wrecks  of  his 
former  property,  and  the  generosity  of  former  friends,  what- 
ever he  had  already  wrung,  had  been  immediately  staked  at 
the -gaming-house  and  as  immediately  lost. 

"  Perhaps  this  would  not  so  soon  have  been  the  case,  if 
Thornton  had  not  artfully  fed  and  sustained  his  expectations. 
He  had  been  long  employed  by  Tyrrell  in  a  professional  capac- 
ity, and  he  knew  well  all  the  gamester's  domestic  affairs  ;  and 
when  he  promised,  should  things  come  to  the  worst,  to  find 
some  expedient  to  restore  them,  Tyrrell  easily  adopted  so  nat- 
tering a  belief. 

"  Meanwhile,  I  had  taken  the  name  and  disguise  under  favor 
of  which  you  met  me  at  Paris,  and  Thornton  had  introduced 
me  to  Tyrrell  as  a  young  Englishman  of  great  wealth,  and  still 
greater  inexperience.  The  gambler  grasped  eagerly  at  an  ac- 
quaintance which  Thornton  readily  persuaded  him  he  could 
turn  to  such  account  ;  and  I  had  thus  every  facility  of  mark- 
ing, day  by  day,  how  my  plot  thickened,  and  my  vengeance 
hastened  to  its  triumph. 

"  This  was  not  all.  I  said,  there  was  not  in  the  wide  world 
a  being  who  would  have  saved  Tyrrell  from  the  fate  he  de- 
served and  was  approaching,  I  forgot  there  ivas  one  who  still 
clung  to  him  with  affection,  and  for  whom  he  still  seemed  to 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         337 

harbor  the  better  and  purer  feelings  of  less  degraded  and 
guilty  times.  This  person  (you  will  guess  readily  it  was  a 
woman)  I  made  it  my  especial  business  and  care  to  wean  away 
from  my  prey  ;  I  would  not  suffer  him  a  consolation  he  had 
denied  to  me.  I  used  all  the  arts  of  seduction  to  obtain  the 
transfer  of  her  affections.  Whatever  promises  and  vows — 
whether  of  love  or  wealth — could  effect,  were  tried  ;  nor,  at 
last,  without  success — /  triumphed.  The  woman  became  my 
slave.  It  was  she  who,  whenever  Tyrrell  faltered  in  his  course 
to  destruction,  combated  his  scruples,  and  urged  on  his  reluc- 
tunce  ;  it  was  she  who  informed  me  minutely  of  his  pitiful 
finances,  and  assisted,  to  her  utmost,  in  expediting  their  decay. 
The  still  more  bitter  treachery  of  deserting  him  in  his  veriest 
want  I  reserved  till  the  fittest  occasion,  and  contemplated  with 
a.  savage  delight. 

"I  was  embarrassed  in  my  scheme  by  two  circumstances  : 
first,  Thornton's  acquaintance  with  you  ;  and,  secondly,  Tyr- 
rell's  receipt  (some  time  afterwards)  of  a  very  unexpected 
sum  of  two  hundred  pounds,  in  return  for  renouncing  all 
further  and  possible  claim  on  the  purchasers  of  his  estate.  To 
the  former,  so  far  as  it  might  interfere  with  my  plans,  or  lead 
to  my  detection,  you  must  pardon  me  for  having  put  a  speedy 
termination  ;  the  latter  threw  me  into  great  consternation — for 
Tyrrell's  first  idea  was  to  renounce  the  gaming-table,  and 
endeavor  to  live  upon  the  trifling  pittance  he  had  acquired,  as 
long  as  the  utmost  economy  would  permit. 

"  This  idea,  Margaret,  the  woman  I  spoke  of,  according  to 
my  instructions  so  artfully  and  successfully  combated,  that 
Tyrrell  yielded  to  his  natural  inclination,  and  returned  once 
more  to  the  infatuation  of  his  favorite  pursuit.  However,  I 
had  become  restlessly  impatient  for  the  conclusion  to  this 
prefatory  part  of  my  revenge,  and,  accordingly,  Thornton  and 
myself  arranged  that  Tyrrell  should  be  persuaded  by  the 
former  to  risk  all,  even  to  his  very  last  farthing,^in  a  private 
game  with  me.  Tyrrell,  who  believed  he  should  readily  recruit 
himself  by  my  unskilfulness  in  the  game,  fell  easily  into  the 
snare  ;  and  on  the  second  night  of  our  engagement  he  not  only 
had  lost  the  whole  of  his  remaining  pittance,  but  had  signed 
bonds  owning  to  a  debt  of  far  greater  amount  than  he,  at  that 
time,  could  ever  even  have  dreamt  of  possessing. 

"  Flushed,  heated,  almost  maddened  with  my  triumph,  I 
yielded  to  the  exultation  of  the  moment.  I  did  not  know  you 
were  so  near — I  discovered  myself — you  remember  the  scene. 
I  went  joyfully  home  :  and  for  the  first  time  since  Gertrude's 


338  PELHAM  ; 

death,  I  was  happy ;  but  there  I  imagined  my  vengeance  only 
would  begin  ;  I  revelled  in  the  burning  hope  of  marking  the 
hunger  and  extremity  that  must  ensue.  The  next  day,  when 
Tyrrell  turned  round,  in  his  despair,  for  one  momentary  word 
of  comfort  from  the  lips  to  which  he  believed,  in  the  fond 
credulity  of  his  heart,  falsehood  and  treachery  never  came,  his 
last  earthly  friend  taunted  and  deserted  him.  Mark  me,  Pel- 
ham — I  was  by,  and  heard  her  ! 

"  But  here  my  power  of  retribution  was  to  close  :  from  the 
thirst  still  unslaked  and  unappeased,  the  cup  was  abruptly 
snatched.  Tyrrell  disappeared — no  one  knew  whither.  I  set 
Thornton's  inquiries  at  work.  A  week  afterwards  he  brought 
me  word  that  Tyrrell  had  died  in  extreme  want,  and  from  very 
despair.  Will  you  credit  that,  at  hearing  this  news,  my  first 
sensations  were  only  rage  and  disappointment  ?  True,  he 
had  died — died  in  all  the  misery  my  heart  could  wish — but  / 
had  not  seen  him  die  ;  and  the  death-bed  seemed  to  me  robbed 
of  its  bitterest  pang. 

"  I  know  not  to  this  day,  though  I  have  often  questioned 
him,  what  interest  Thornton  had  in  deceiving  me  by  this  tale  ; 
for  my  own  part,  I  believe  that  he  himself  was  deceived;* 
certain  it  is  (for  I  inquired),  that  a  person  very  much  answer- 
ing to  Tyrrell's  description  had  perished  in  the  state  Thornton 
mentioned  ;  and  this  might,  therefore,  in  all  probability  have 
misled  him. 

"  I  left  Paris,  and  returned,  through  Normandy,  to  England 
(where  I  remained  some  weeks)  ;  there  we  again  met :  but  I 
think  we  did  not  meet  till  I  had  been  persecuted  by  the  inso- 
lence and  importunity  of  Thornton.  The  tools  of  our  passions 
cut  both  ways  ;  like  the  monarch  who  employed  strange  beasts 
in  his  army,  we  find  our  treacherous  allies  less  destructive  to 
others  than  ourselves.  But  I  was  not  of  a  temper  to  brook  the 
tauntings,  or  the  encroachment,  of  my  own  creature  ;  it  had 
been  with  but  an  ill  grace  that  I  had  endured  his  familiarity 
when  I  absolutely  required  his  services,  much  less  could  I  suffer 
his  intrusion  when  those  services — services  not  of  love,  but 
hire — were  no  longer  necessary.  Thornton,  like  all  persons  of 
his  stamp,  has  a  low  pride  which  I  was  constantly  offending. 
He  had  mixed  with  men  more  than  my  equals  in  rank  on  a 
familiar  footing,  and  he  could  ill  brook  the  hauteur  with  which 
my  disgust  at  his  character  absolutely  constrained  me  to  treat 
him.  It  is  true,  that  the  profuseness  of  my  liberality  was  such 
that  the  mean  wretch  stomached  affronts  for  which  he  was  sp 

*  It  seems,  from  subsequent  investigation,  that  this  was  really  the  case, 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          339 

largely  paid  ;  but,  with  the  cunning  and  malicious  spite  natural 
to  him,  he  knew  well  how  to  repay  them  in  kind.  While  he 
assisted,  he  affected  to  ridicule,  my  revenge  ;  and  though  he 
soon  saw  that  he  durst  not,  for  his  very  life,  breathe  a  syllable 
openly  against  Gertrude  or  her  memory,  yet  he  contrived,  by 
general  remarks  and  covert  insinuations,  to  gall  me  to  the  very 
quick,  and  in  the  very  tenderest  point.  Thus  a  deep  and  cor- 
dial antipathy  to  each  other  arose,  and  grew,  and  strengthened, 
till  I  believe,  like  the  fiends  in  hell,  our  mutual  hatred  became 
our  common  punishment. 

"  No  sooner  had  I  returned  to  England  than  I  found  him 
here,  awaiting  my  arrival.  He  favored  me  with  frequent  visits 
and  requests  for  money.  Although  not  possessed  of  any  secret 
really  important  affecting  my  character,  he  knew  well  that  he 
was  possessed  of  one  important  to  my  quiet ;  and  he  availed 
himself  to  the  utmost  of  my  strong  and  deep  aversion  even  to 
the  most  delicate  recurrence  to  my  love  to  Gertrude,  and  its 
unhallowed  and  disastrous  termination.  At  length,  however, 
he  wearied  me  ;  I  found  that  he  was  sinking  into  the  very  dregs 
and  refuse  of  society,  and  I  could  not  longer  brook  the  idea  of 
enduring  his  familiarity  and  feeding  his  vices. 

"  I  pass  over  any  detail  of  my  own  feelings,  as  well  as  my 
outward  and  worldly  history.  Over  my  mind  a  great  change 
had  passed  ;  I  was  no  longer  torn  by  violent  and  contending 
passions  ;  upon  the  tumultuous  sea  a  dead  and  heavy  torpor 
had  fallen  ;  the  very  winds  necessary  for  health  had  ceased  : 

'  I  slept  on  the  abyss  without  a  surge.' 

One  violent  and  engrossing  passion  is  among  the  worst  of  all 
immoralities,  for  it  leaves  the  mind  too  stagnant  and  exhausted 
for  those  activities  and  energies  which  constitute  our  real 
duties.  However,  now  that  the  tyrant  feeling  of  my  mind  was 
removed,  I  endeavored  to  shake  off  the  apathy  it  had  produced, 
and  return  to  the  various  occupations  and  business  of  life. 
Whatever  could  divert  me  from  my  own  dark  memories,  or  give 
a  momentary  motion  to  the  stagnation  of  my  mind,  I  grasped 
at  with  the  fondness  and  eagerness  of  a  child.  Thus,  you  found 
me  surrounding  myself  with  luxuries  which  palled  upon  my 
taste  the  instant  that  their  novelty  had  passed  :  ncnv  striving  for 
the  vanity  of  literary  fame  ;  now,  for  the  emptier  baubles  which 
riches  could  procure.  At  one  time  I  shrouded  myself  in  my 
closet,  and  brooded  over  the  dogmas  of  the  learned,  and  the 
errors  of  the  wise  ;  at  another,  I  plunged  into  the  more  en- 
grossing and  active  pursuits  of  the  living  crowd  which  rolled 


34°  PELHAM  ; 

around  me,  and  flattered  my  heart  that  amidst  the  applause  of 
senators,  and  the  whirlpool  of  affairs,  I  could  lull  to  rest  the 
voices  of  the  past,  and  the  spectre  of  the  dead. 

"  Whether  these  hopes  were  effectual,  and  the  struggle  not 
in  vain,  this  haggard  and  wasting  form,  drooping  day  by  day 
into  the  grave,  can  declare  ;  but  I  said  I  would  not  dwell  long 
upon  this  part  of  my  history,  nor  is  it  necessary.  Of  one  thing 
only,  not  connected  with  the  main  part  of  my  confessions,  it  is 
right,  for  the  sake  of  one  tender  and  guiltless  being,  that  I 
should  speak. 

"  In  the  cold  and  friendless  world  with  which  I  mixed  there 
was  a  heart  which  had  years  ago  given  itself  wholly  up  to  me. 
At  that  time  I  was  ignorant  of  the  gift  I  so  little  deserved,  or 
(for  it  was  before  I  knew  Gertrude)  I  might  have  returned  it, 
and  been  saved  years  of  crime  and  anguish.  Since  then  the 
person  I  allude  to  had  married,  and,  by  the  death  of  her  hus- 
band, was  once  more  free.  Intimate  with  my  family,  and  more 
especially  with  my  sister,  she  now  met  me  constantly  ;  her  com- 
passion for  the  change  she  perceived  in  me,  both  in  mind  and 
person,  was  stronger  than  even  her  reserve,  and  this  is  the  only 
reason  why  I  speak  of  an  attachment  which  ought  otherwise  to 
be  concealed  :  I  believe  that  you  already  understand  to  whom 
I  allude,  and  since  you  have  discovered  her  weakness,  it  is  right 
that  you  should  know  also  her  virtue  ;  it  is  right  that  you  should 
learn,  that  it  was  not  in  her  the  fantasy  or  passion  of  a  moment, 
but  a  long  and  secreted  love  ;  that  you  should  learn,  that  it  was 
her  pity,  and  no  unfeminine  disregard  to  opinion,  which  be- 
trayed her  into  imprudence,  and  that  she  is,  at  this  moment, 
innocent  of  everything  but  the  folly  of  loving  me. 

"  I  pass  on  to  the  time  when  I  discovered  that  I  had  been, 
either  intentionally  or  unconsciously,  deceived,  and  that  my 
enemy  yet  lived  !  Lived  in  honor,  prosperity,  and  the  world's 
blessings.  The  information  was  like  removing  a  barrier  from 
a  stream  hitherto  pent  into  quiet  and  restraint.  All  the  stormy 
thoughts,  feelings,  and  passions,  so  long  at  rest,  rushed  again 
into  a  terrible  and  tumultuous  action.  The  newly  formed 
stratum  of  my  mind  was  swept  away  ;  everything  seemed  a 
wreck,  a  chaos,  a  convulsion  of  jarring  elements  ;  but  this  is  a 
trite  and  tame  description  of  my  feelings  ;  words  would  be  but 
commonplace  to  express  the  revulsion  which  I  experienced  : 
yet,  amidst  all,  there  was  one  paramount  and  presiding  thought, 
to  which  the  rest  were  as  atoms  in  the  heap — the  awakened 
thought  of  vengeance  !  But  how  was  it  to  be  gratified  ? 

"  Placed  as  Tyrrell  now  was  in  the  scale  of  society,  every 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         34! 

method  of  retribution  but  the  one  formerly  rejected  seemed  at 
an  end.  To  that  one,  therefore,  weak  and  merciful  as  it  ap- 
peared to  me,  I  resorted — you  took  my  challenge  to  Tyrrell — 
you  remember  his  behavior — Conscience  doth  indeed  make 
cowards  of  us  all  !  The  letter  inclosed  to  me  in  his  to  you  con- 
tained only  the  commonplace  argument  urged  so  often  by  those 
who  have  injured  us  :  viz.,  the  reluctance  at  attempting  our 
life  after  having  ruined  our  happiness.  When  I  found  that  he 
had  left  London  my  rage  knew  no  bounds  ;  I  was  absolutely 
frantic  with  indignation  ;  the  earth  reeled  before  my  eyes  ;  I 
was  almost  suffocated  by  the  violence — the  ivhirlpool — of  my 
emotions.  I  gave  myself  no  time  to  think — I  left  town  in  pur- 
suit of  my  foe. 

"  I  found  that — still  addicted,  though,  I  believe,  not  so  madly 
as  before,  to  his  old  amusements — he  was  in  the  neighborhood 
of  Newmarket,  awaiting  the  races  shortly  to  ensue.  No  sooner 
did  I  find  his  address,  than  I  wrote  him  another  challenge,  still 
more  forcibly  and  insultingly  worded  than  the  one  you  took. 
In  this  I  said  that  his  refusal  was  of  no  avail ;  that  I  had  sworn 
that  my  vengeance  should  overtake  him  ;  and  that  sooner  or 
later,  in  the  face  of  Heaven  and  despite  of  hell,  my  oath  should 
be  fulfilled.  Remember  those  words,  Pelham,  I  shall  refer  to 
them  hereafter. 

"  Tyrrell's  reply  was  short  and  contemptuous  ;  he  affected 
to  treat  me  as  a  madman.  Perhaps  (and  I  confess  that  the  in- 
coherence of  my  letter  authorized  such  suspicion)  he  believed 
I  really  was  one.  He  concluded  by  saying,  that  if  he  received 
more  of  my  letters,  he  should  shelter  himself  from  my  aggres- 
sions by  the  protection  of  the  law. 

"On  receiving  this  reply,  a  stern,  sullen,  iron  spirit  entered 
into  my  bosom.  I  betrayed  no  external  mark  of  passion  ;  I 
sat  down  in  silence — I  placed  the  letter  and  Gertrude's  picture 
before  me.  There,  still  and  motionless,  I  remained  for  hours. 
I  remember  well  I  was  awakened  from  my  gloomy  revery  by 
the  clock,  as  it  struck  the  first  hour  of  the  morning.  At  that 
lone  and  ominous  sound  the  associations  of  romance  and  dread 
which  the  fables  of  our  childhood  connect  with  it  rushed  coldly 
and  fearfully  into  my  mind  ;  the  damp  dews  broke  out  upon  my 
forehead,  and  the  blood  curdled  in  my  limbs.  In  that  moment 
I  knelt  down  and  vowed  a  frantic  and  deadly  oath — the  words 
of  which  I  would  not  now  dare  to  repeat — that  before  three 
days  expired,  hell  should  no  longer  be  cheated  of  its  prey.  I 
rose — I  flung  myself  on  my  bed,  and  slept. 

"The  next  day  I  left  my  abode.     I  purchased  a  strong  and 


342  PELHAM  ; 

swift  horse,  and,  disguising  myself  from  head  to  foot  in  a  long 
horseman's  cloak,  I  set  off  alone,  locking  in  my  heart  the  calm 
and  cold  conviction  that  my  oath  should  be  kept.  I  placed, 
concealed  in  my  dress,  two  pistols  ;  my  intention  was  to  follow 
Tyrrell  wherever  he  went,  till  we  could  find  ourselves  alone, 
and  without  the  chance  of  intrusion.  It  was  then  my  deter- 
mination to  force  him  into  a  contest,  and  that  no  trembling  of 
the  hand,  no  error  of  the  swimming  sight,  might  betray  my 
purpose,  to  place  us  foot  to  foot,  and  the  mouth  of  each  pistol 
almost  to  the  very  temple  of  each  antagonist.  Nor  was  I  de- 
terred for  a  moment  from  this  resolution  by  the  knowledge 
that  my  own  death  must  be  as  certain  as  my  victim's.  On  the 
contrary,  I  looked  forward  to  dying  thus,  and  so  baffling  the 
more  lingering,  but  not  less  sure,  disease,  which  was  daily  wasting 
me  away,  with  the  same  fierce,  yet  not  unquiet,  delight  with 
which  men  have  rushed  into  battle,  and  sought  out  a  death  less 
bitter  to  them  than  life. 

"  For  two  days,  though  I  each  day  saw  Tyrrell,  fate  threw 
into  my  way  no  opportunity  of  executing  my  design.  The 
morning  of  the  third  came — Tyrrell  was  on  the  race-ground  : 
sure  that  he  would  remain  there  for  some  hours,  I  put  up  my 
wearied  horse  in  the  town,  and,  seating  myself  in  an  obscure 
corner  of  the  course,  was  contented  with  watching,  as  the  serpent 
does  his  victim,  the  distant  motions  of  my  enemy.  Perhaps  you 
can  recollect  passing  a  man  seated  on  the  ground,  and  robed 
in  a  horseman's  cloak.  I  need  not  tell  you  that  it  was  I  whom 
you  passed  and  accosted.  I  saw  you  ride  by  me  ;  but  the  mo- 
ment you  were  gone  I  forgot  the  occurrence.  I  looked  upon 
the  rolling  and  distant  crowd  as  a  child  views  the  figures  of 
the  phantasmagoria,  scarcely  knowing  if  my  eyes  deceived  me, 
feeling  impressed  with  some  stupifying  and  ghastly  sensation 
of  dread,  and  cherishing  the  conviction  that  my  life  was  not 
as  the  life  of  the  creatures  that  passed  before  me. 

"The  day  waned  ;  I  went  back  for  my  horse  ;  I  returned  to 
the  course,  and,  keeping  at  a  distance  as  little  suspicious  as 
possible,  followed  the  motions  of  Tyrrell.  He  went  back  to 
the  town  ;  rested  there  ;  repaired  to  a  gaming-table  ;  stayed  in 
it  a  short  time  ;  returned  to  his  inn,  and  ordered  his  horse. 

"  In  all  these  motions  I  followed  the  object  of  my  pursuit  ; 
and  my  heart  bounded  with  joy  when  I,  at  last,  saw  him  set 
out  alone,  and  in  the  advancing  twilight.  I  followed  him  till 
he  left  the  main  road.  Now,  1  thought,  was  my  time.  I  re- 
doubled my  pace,  and  had  nearly  reached  him,  when  some 
horsemen  appearing,  constrained  me  again  to  slacken  my  pace. 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         343 

Various  other  similar  interruptions  occurred  to  delay  my  plot. 
At  length  all  was  undisturbed.  I  spurred  my  horse,  and  was 
nearly  on  the  heels  of  my  enemy,  when  I  perceived  him  join 
another  man — this  \vasyou — I  clenched  my  teeth,  and  drew  my 
breath,  as  I  once  more  retreated  to  a  distance.  In  a  short  time 
two  men  passed  me,  and  I  found  that,  owing  to  some  accident 
on  the  road,  they  stopped  to  assist  you.  It  appears  by  your 
evidence  on  a  subsequent  event  that  these  men  were  Thornton 
and  his  friend  Dawson  :  at  the  time  they  passed  too  rapidly, 
and  I  was  too  much  occupied  in  my  own  dark  thoughts,  to  ob- 
serve them  :  still  I  kept  up  to  you  and  Tyrrell,  sometimes 
catching  the  outline  of  your  figures  through  the  moonlight,  at 
others  (with  the  acute  sense  of  anxiety),  only  just  distinguish- 
ing the  clang  of  your  horses'  hoofs  on  the  stony  ground.  At 
last,  a  heavy  shower  came  on ;  imagine  my  joy  when  Tyrrell 
left  you  and  rode  off  alone  ! 

"  I  passed  you,  and  followed  my  enemy  as  fast  as  my  horse 
would  permit  ;  but  it  was  not  equal  to  Tyrrell's,  which  was  al- 
most at  its  full  speed.  However,  I  came,  at  last,  to  a  very 
steep,  and  almost  precipitous,  descent.  I  was  forced  to  ride 
slowly  and  cautiously  ;  this,  however,  I  the  less  regarded,  from 
my  conviction  that  Tyrrell  must  be  obliged  to  use  the  same  pre- 
caution. My  hand  was  on  my  pistol  with  the  grasp  of  premed- 
itated revenge,when  a  shrill,  sharp,  solitary  cry  broke  on  my  ear. 

"  No  sound  followed — all  was  silence.  I  was  just  approach- 
ing toward  the  close  of  the  descent  when  a  horse  without  its 
rider  passed  me.  The  shower  had  ceased,  and  the  moon  bro- 
ken from  the  cloud  some  minutes  before  ;  by  its  light  I  recog- 
nized the  horse  rode  by  Tyrrell ;  perhaps,  I  thought,  it  has 
thrown  its  master,  and  my  victim  will  now  be  utterly  in  iny 
power.  I  pushed  hastily  forward  in  spite  of  the  hill,  not  yet 
wholly  passed.  I  came  to  a  spot  of  singular  desolation — it  was 
a  broad  patch  of  waste  land,  a  pool  of  water  was  on  the  right, 
and  a  remarkable  and  withered  tree  hung  over  it.  I  looked 
round,  but  saw  nothing  of  life  stirring.  A  dark  and  imper- 
fectly developed  object  lay  by  the  side  of  the  pond — I  pressed 
forward.  Merciful  God  !  my  enemy  had  escaped  my  hand,  and 
lay  in  the  stillness  of  death  before  me  ! " 

"What!"  I  exclaimed,  interrupting  Glanville,  for  I  could 
contain  myself  no  longer,  "it  was  not  by  you  then  that  Tyrrell 
fell  ?"  With  these  words  I  grasped  his  hand  ;  and,  excited  as 
I  had  been  by  my  painful  and  wrought-up  interest  in  his  re- 
cital, I  burst  into  tears  of  gratitude  and  joy.  Reginald  Glan- 
ville was  innocent — Ellen  was  not  the  sister  of  an  assassin  ! 


344  PELHAM  ; 

After  a  short  pause,  Glanville  continued  : 

"  I  gazed  upon  the  upward  and  disterted  face  in  a  deep  and 
sickening  silence  ;  an  awe,  dark  and  undefined,  crept  over  my 
heart  ;  1  stood  beneath  the  solemn  and  sacred  heavens,  and 
felt  that  the  hand  of  God  was  upon  me — that  a  mysterious  and 
fearful  edict  had  gone  forth  ;  that  my  headlong  and  unholy 
wrath  had,  in  the  very  midst  of  its  fury,  been  checked,  as  if 
but  the  idle  anger  of  a  child  ;  that  the  plan  I  had  laid  in  the 
foolish  wisdom  of  my  heart,  had  been  traced,  step  by  step,  by 
an  all-seeing  Eye,  and  baffled  in  the  moment  of  its  fancied  suc- 
cess by  an  inscrutable  and  awful  doom.  I  had  wished  the 
death  of  my  enemy — lo  !  my  wish  was  accomplished  !  flow,  I 
neither  knew  nor  guessed — there,  a  still  and  senseless  clod  of 
earth,  without  power  of  offence  or  injury,  he  lay  beneath  my 
feet ;  it  seemed  as  if,  in  the  moment  of  my  uplifted  arm,  the 
Divine  Avenger  had  asserted  His  prerogative  ;  as  if  the  angel 
which  had  smitten  the  Assyrian  had  again  swept  forth,  though 
against  a  meaner  victim  ;  and,  while  he  punished  the  guilt  of 
a  human  criminal,  had  set  an  eternal  barrier  to  the  vengeance 
of  a  human  foe  ! 

"  I  dismounted  from  my  horse,  and  bent  over  the  murdered 
man.  I  drew  from  my  bosom  the  miniature,  which  never  for- 
sook me,  and  bathed  the  lifeless  resemblance  of  Gertrude  in 
the  blood  of  her  betrayer.  Scarcely  had  I  done  so  before  my 
ear  caught  the  sounds  of  steps  ;  hastily  I  thrust,  as  I  thought, 
the  miniature  in  my  bosom,  remounted,  and  rode  hurriedly 
away.  At  that  hour,  and  for  many  which  succeeded  to  it,  I 
believe  that  all  sense  was  suspended.  I  was  like  a  man  haunted 
by  a  dream,  and  wandering  under  its  influence  ;  or,  as  one  whom 
a  spectre  pursues,  and  for  whose  eye  the  breathing  and  busy 
world  is  but  as  a  land  of  unreal  forms  and  flitting  shadows, 
teeming  with  the  monsters  of  darkness  and  the  terrors  of  the 
tomb. 

"  It  was  not  till  the  next  day  that  I  missed  the  picture.  I 
returned  to  the  spot,  searched  it  carefully,  but  in  vain — the 
miniature  could  not  be  found  ;  I  returned  to  town,  and  shortly 
afterwards  the  newspapers  informed  me  of  what  had  subse- 
quently occurred.  I  saw,  with  dismay,  that  all  appearance 
pointed  to  me  as  the  criminal,  and  that  the  officers  of  justice 
were  at  that  moment  tracing  the  clue  which  my  cloak,  and  the 
color  of  my  horse,  afforded  them.  My  mysterious  pursuit  of 
Tyrrell ;  the  disguise  I  had  assumed  ;  the  circumstance  of  my 
passing  you  on  the  road,  and  of  my  flight  when  you  approached, 
all  spoke  volumes  against  me.  A  stronger  evidence  yet  re- 


OR,  ADVENTURES   OF    A    GENTLEMAN.  345 

mained,  and  it  was  reserved  for  Thornton  to  indicate  it — at 
this  moment  my  life  is  in  his  hands.  Shortly  after  my  return 
to  town,  he  forced  his  way  into  my  room,  shut  the  door,  bolted 
it,  and,  the  moment  we  were  alone,  said,  with  a  savage  and 
fiendish  grin  of  exultation  and  defiance  :  '  Sir  Reginald  Glan- 
ville,  you  have  many  a  time  and  oft  insulted  me  with  your 
pride,  and  more  with  your  gifts  :  now  it  is  my  time  to  insult 
and  triumph  over  you — know  that  one  word  of  mine  could 
sentence  you  to  the  gibbet.' 

"  He  then  minutely  summed  up  the  evidence  against  me, 
and  drew  from  his  pocket  the  threatening  letter  I  had  last 
written  to  Tyrrell.  You  remember  that  therein  I  said  my 
vengeance  was  sworn  against  him,  and  that,  sooner  or  later,  it 
should  overtake  him.  'Couple,'  said  Thornton  coldly,  as  he 
replaced  the  letter  in  his  pocket,  'couple  these  words  with  the 
evidence  already  against  you,  and  I  would  not  buy  your  life  at 
a  farthing's  value.' 

"  How  Thornton  came  by  this  paper,  so  important  to  my 
safety,  I  know  not :  but  when  he  read  it,  I  was  startled  by  the 
danger  it  brought  upon  me  :  one  glance  sufficed  to  show  me 
that  I  was  utterly  at  the  mercy  of  the  villain  who  stood  before 
me :  he  saw  and  enjoyed  my  struggles. 

' '  Now,'  said  he,  '  we  know  each  other  ;  at  present  I  want  a 
thousand  pounds  ;  you  will  not  refuse  it  me,  I  am  sure ;  when 
it  is  gone  I  shall  call  again  ;  till  then  you  can  do  without  me.' 
I  flung  him  a  check  for  the  money,  and  he  departed. 

"  You  may  conceive  the  mortification  I  endured  in  this  sacri- 
fice of  pride  to  prudence  :  but  those  were  no  ordinary  motives 
which  induced  me  to  submit  to  it.  Fast  approaching  to  the 
grave,  it  mattered  to  me  but  little  whether  a  violent  death 
should  shorten  a  life  to  which  a  limit  was  already  set,  and 
which  I  was  far  from  being  anxious  to  retain  :  but  I  could  not 
endure  the  thought  of  bringing  upon  my  mother  and  my  sister 
the  wretchedness  and  shame  which  the  mere  suspicion  of  a 
crime  so  enormous  would  occasion  them  ;  and  when  my  eye 
caught  all  the  circumstances  arrayed  against  me,  my  pride 
seemed  to  suffer  a  less  mortification  even  in  the  course  I  adopted 
than  in  the  thought  of  the  felon's  gaol,  and  the  criminal's  trial  ; 
the  hoots  and  execrations  of  the  mob,  and  the  death  and 
ignominious  remembrance  of  the  murderer. 

"  Stronger  than  either  of  these  motives  was  my  shrinking 
and  loathing  aversion  to  whatever  seemed  likely  to  unrip  the 
secret  history  of  the  past.  I  sickened  at  the  thought  of  Ger- 
trude's name  and  fate  being  bared  to  the  vulgar  eye,  and 


346  PELHAM  J 

exposed  to  the  comment,  the  strictures,  the  ridicule  of  the 
gaping  and  curious  public.  It  seemed  to  me,  therefore,  but  a 
very  poor  exertion  of  philosophy  to  conquer  my  feelings  of 
humiliation  at  Thornton's  insolence  and  triumph,  and  to  con- 
sole myself  with  the  reflection  that  a  few  months  must  rid  me 
alike  of  his  exactions  and  my  life. 

"But,  of  late,  Thornton's  persecutions  and  demands  have 
risen  to  such  a  height,  that  I  have  been  scarcely  able  to  restrain 
my  indignation  and  control  myself  into  compliance.  The 
struggle  is  too  powerful  for  my  frame ;  it  is  rapidly  bringing 
on  the  fiercest  and  the  last  contest  I  shall  suffer,  before  '  the 
wicked  shall  cease  from  troubling,  and  the  weary  be  at  rest.' 
Some  days  since  I  came  to  a  resolution  which  I  am  now  about 
to  execute  ;  it  is  to  leave  this  country  and  take  refuge  on  the 
Continent.  There  I  shall  screen  myself  from  Thornton's  pur- 
suit, and  the  danger  which  it  entails  upon  me  ;  and  there,  un- 
known and  undisturbed,  I  shall  await  the  termination  of  my 
disease. 

"But  two  duties  remained  to  me  to  fulfil  before  I  departed  ; 
I  have  now  discharged  them  both.  One  was  due  to  the  warm- 
hearted and  noble  being  who  honored  me  with  her  interest  and 
affection — the  other  to  you.  I  went  yesterday  to  the  former  ; 
I  sketched  the  outline  of  that  history  which  I  have  detailed  to 
you.  I  showed  her  the  waste  of  my  barren  heart,  and  spoke 
toherof  the  disease  which  was  wearing  me  away.  How  beauti- 
ful is  the  love  of  woman  !  She  would  have  followed  me  over 
the  world,  received  my  last  sigh,  and  seen  me  to  the  rest  I  shall 
find,  at  length  ;  and  this  without  a  hope,  or  thought  of  recom- 
pense, even  from  the  worthlessness  of  my  love. 

"  But,  enough  !  Of  her  my  farewell  has  been  taken.  Your 
suspicions  I  have  seen  and  forgiven,  for  they  were  natural ;  it 
was  due  to  me  to  remove  them  :  the  pressure  of  your  hand  tells 
me  that  I  have  done  so  :  but  I  had  another  reason  for  my  con- 
fessions. I  have  worn  away  the  romance  of  my  heart,  and  I 
have  now  no  indulgence  for  the  little  delicacies  and  petty 
scruples  which  often  stand  in  the  way  of  our  real  happiness. 
I  have  marked  your  former  addresses  to  Ellen,  and,  I  confess, 
with  great  joy  ;  for  I  know,  amidst  all  your  worldly  ambition, 
and  the  encrusted  artificiality  of  your  exterior,  how  warm  and 
generous  is  your  real  heart — how  noble  and  intellectual  is  your 
real  mind  :  and  were  my  sister  tenfold  more  perfect  than  I 
believe  her,  I  do  not  desire  to  find  on  earth  one  more  deserv- 
ing of  her  than  yourself.  I  have  remarked  your  late  estrange- 
ment from  Ellen ;  and,  while  I  guessed,  1  felt  that,  however 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         347 

painful  to  me,  I  ought  to  remove,  the  cause  :  she  loves  you — 
though,  perhaps,  you  know  it  not — much  and  truly ;  and  since 
my  earlier  life  has  been  passed  in  a  selfish  inactivity,  I  would 
fain  let  it  close  Avith  the  reflection  of  having  served  two  beings 
whom  I  prize  so  dearly,  and  the  hope  that  their  happiness  will 
commence  with  my  death. 

"  And  now,  Pelham,  I  have  done  ;  I  am  weak  and  exhausted, 
and  cannot  bear  more — even  of  your  society,  now.  Think  over 
what  I  have  last  said,  and  let  me  see  you  again  to-morrow  ;  on 
the  day  after,  I  leave  England  forever." 

CHAPTER  LXXVI. 


"  But  wilt  thou  accept  not 

The  worship  the  heart  lifts  above, 

And  the  Heavens  reject  not. 
The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star, 

Of  the  night  for  the  morrow, 
The  devotion  to  something  afar 

From  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow  ?  " — P.  B.  SHELLEY. 

IT  was  not  with  a  light  heart — for  I  loved  Glanville  too  well 
not  to  be  powerfully  affected  by  his  awful  history — but  with  a 
chastised  and  sober  joy,  that  I  now  beheld  my  friend  innocent 
of  the  guilt  of  which  my  suspicions  had  accused  him,  while  the 
only  obstacle  to  my  marriage  with  his  sister  was  removed. 
True  it  was  that  the  sword  yet  hung  over  his  head,  and  that 
while  he  lived  there  could  be  no  rational  assurance  of  his  safety 
from  the  disgrace  and  death  of  the  felon.  In  the  world's  eye, 
therefore,  the  barrier  to  my  union  with  Ellen  would  have  been 
far  from  being  wholly  removed  ;  but,  at  that  moment,  my  dis- 
appointments had  disgusted  me  with  the  world,  and  I  turned 
with  a  double  yearning  of  heart  to  her  whose  pure  and  holy 
love  could  be  at  once  my  recompense  and  retreat. 

Nor  was  this  selfish  consideration  my  only  motive  in  the  con- 
duct I  was  resolved  to  adopt ;  on  the  contrary,  it  was  scarcely 
more  prominent  in  my  mind  than  those  derived  from  giving  to 
a  friend  who  was  now  dearer  to  me  than  ever  his  only  conso- 
lation on  this  earth,  and  to  Ellen  the  safest  protection,  in  case 
of  any  danger  to  her  brother.  With  these,  it  is  true,  were  min- 
gled feelings  which,  in  happier  circumstances,  might  have  been 
those  of  transport  at  a  bright  and  successful  termination  to  a 
deep  and  devoted  love  ;  but  these  I  had,  while  Glanville's  very 
life  was  so  doubtful,  little  right  to  indulge,  and  I  checked  them 
as  soon  as  they  arose. 


PELHAM  J 

After  a  sleepless  night  I  repaired  to  Lady  Glanville's  house. 
It  was  long  since  I  had  been  there,  and  the  servant  who  admit- 
ted me  seemed  somewhat  surprised  at  the  earliness  of  my  visit. 
I  desired  to  see  the  mother,  and  waited  in  the  parlor  till  she 
came.  I  made  but  a  scanty  exordium  to  my  speech.  In  very 
few  words  I  expressed  my  love  to  Ellen,  and  besought  her  me- 
diation in  my  behalf  ;  nor  did  I  think  it  would  be  a  slight  con- 
sideration in  my  favor,  with  the  fond  mother,  to  mention  Glan- 
ville's approbation  of  my  suit. 

"  Ellen  is  upstairs  in  the  drawing-room,"  said  Lady  Glan- 
ville.  "  I  will  go  and  prepare  her  to  receive  you — if  you  have 
her  consent,  you  have  mine." 

"  Will  you  suffer  me  then,"  said  I,"  to  forestall  you  ?  Forgive 
my  impatience,  and  let  me  see  her  before  you  do." 

Lady  Glanville  was  a  woman  of  the  good  old  school,  and 
stood  somewhat  upon  forms  and  ceremonies.  I  did  not,  there- 
fore, await  the  answer,  which  I  foresaw  might  not  be  favorable 
to  my  success,  but  with  my  customary  assurance  left  the  room, 
and  hastened  upstairs.  I  entered  the  drawing-room,  and  shut 
the  door.  Ellen  was  at  the  far  end  ;  and  as  I  entered  with  a 
light  step,  she  did  not  perceive  me  till  I  was  close  by. 

She  started  when  she  saw  me  ;  and  her  cheek,  before  very 
pale,  deepened  into  crimson.  "  Good  Heavens  !  is  it  you  !  " 
she  said  falteringly.  "  I — I  thought — but — but  excuse  me  for 
an  instant,  I  will  call  my  mother." 

"  Stay  for  one  instant,  I  beseech  you — it  is  from  your  mother 
that  I  come — she  has  referred  me  to  you."  And  with  a  trem- 
bling and  hurried  voice,  for  all  my  usual  boldness  forsook  me, 
I  poured  forth,  in  rapid  and  burning  words,  the  history  of  my 
secret  and  hoarded  love — its  doubts,  fears,  and  hopes. 

Ellen  sank  back  on  her  chair,  overpowered  and  silent  by  her 
feelings,  and  the  vehemence  of  my  own.  I  knelt,  and  took  "her 
hand  ;  I  covered  it  with  my  kisses — it  was  not  withdrawn  from 
them.  I  raised  my  eyes  and  beheld  in  hers  all  that  my  heart 
had  hoped,  but  did  not  dare  to  portray. 

"  You — you,"  said  she,  when  at  last  she  found  words  ;  "  I 
imagined  that  you  only  thought  of  ambition  and  the  world — I 
could  not  have  dreamt  of  this."  She  ceased,  blushing  and  em- 
barrassed. 

"  It  is  true,"  said  I,  "  that  you  had  a  right  to  think  so,  for, 
till  this  moment,  I  have  never  opened  to  you  even  a  glimpse 
of  my  veiled  heart,  and  its  secret  and  wild  desires  ;  but  do  you 
think  that  my  love  was  the  less  a  treasure  because  it  was  hid- 
den ?  or  the  less  deep  because  it  was  cherished  at  the  bottom 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          349 

of  my  soul  ?  No — no  ;  believe  me,  that  love  was  not  to  be 
mingled  with  the  ordinary  objects  of  life  ;  it  was  too  pure  to 
be  profaned  by  the  levities  and  follies  which  are  all  of  my  na- 
ture that  I  have  permitted  myself  to  develop  to  the  world.  Do 
not  imagine,  that,  because  1  have  seemed  an  idler  with  the 
idle,  selfish  with  the  interested,  and  cold,  and  vain,  and  frivo- 
lous, with  those  to  whom  such  qualities  were  both  a  passport 
and  a  virtue — do  not  imagine  that  I  have  concealed  within  me 
nothing  more  worthy  of  you  and  of  myself  ;  my  very  love  for 
you  shows  that  I  am  wiser  and  better  than  I  have  seemed. 
Speak  to  me,  Ellen — may  I  call  you  by  that  name — one  word, 
one  syllable  !  Speak  to  me,  and  tell  me  that  you  have  read  my 
heart,  and  that  you  will  not  reject  it !  " 

There  came  no  answer  from  those  dear  lips  ;  but  their  soft 
and  tender  smile  told  me  that  I  might  hope.  That  hour  I 
still  recall  and  bless  !  that  hour  was  the  happiest  of  my  life. 

CHAPTER  LXXVII. 

"A  thousand  crowns,  or  else  lay  down  your  head." — 2d  Part  of  Henry  VI. 

FROM  Ellen  I  hastened  to  the  house  of  Sir  Reginald.  The 
hall  was  in  all  the  confusion  of  approaching  departure.  I 
sprang  over  the  paraphernalia  of  books  and  boxes  which  ob- 
structed my  way,  and  bounded  up  the  stairs.  Glanville  was, 
as  usual,  alone  :  his  countenance  was  less  pale  than  it  had 
been  lately,  and  when  I  saw  it  brighten  as  I  approached,  I 
hoped,  in  the  new  happiness  of  my  heart,  that  he  might  baffle 
both  his  enemy  and  his  disease. 

I  told  him  all  that  had  just  occurred  between  Ellen  and 
myself.  "  And  now,"  said  I,  as  I  clasped  his  hand,  "  I  have  a 
proposal  to  make  to  which  you  must  accede  :  let  me  accompany 
you  abroad  ;  I  will  go  with  you  to  whatever  corner  of  the 
world  you  may  select.  We  will  plan  together  every  possible 
method  of  concealing  our  retreat.  Upon  the  past  I  will  never 
speak  to  you.  In  your  hours  of  solitude  I  will  never  disturb 
you  by  an  unwelcome  and  ill-timed  sympathy.  I  will  tend  upon 
you,  watch  over  you,  bear  with  you,  with  more  than  the  love 
and  tenderness  of  a  brother.  You  shall  see  me  only  when 
you  wish  it.  Your  loneliness  shall  never  be  invaded.  When 
you  get  better,  as  I  presage  you  will,  I  will  leave  you  to  come 
back  to  England,  and  provide  for  the  worst,  by  ensuring  your 
sister  a  protector.  I  will  then  return  to  you  alone,  that  your 
seclusion  may  not  be  endangered  by  the  knowledge  even  of 
Ellen,  and  you  shall  have  me  by  your  side  till — till — " 


35<>  PELHAM  ; 

"The  last!"  interrupted  Glanville.  "Too — too  generous 
Pelham,  I  feel — these  tears  (the  first  I  have  shed  for  a  long, 
long  time)  tell  you,  that  I  feel  to  the  heart — your  friendship 
and  disinterested  attachment  ;  but  in  the  moment  your  love 
for  Ellen  has  become  successful  I  will  not  tear  you  from  its 
enjoyment.  Believe  me,  all  that  I  could  derive  from  your 
society  could  not  afford  me  half  the  happiness  I  should  have 
in  knowing  that  you  and  Ellen  were  blest  in  each  other.  No — 
no,  my  solitude  will,  at  that  reflection,  be  deprived  of  its  sting. 
You  shall  hear  from  me  once  again  ;  my  letter  shall  contain  a 
request,  and  your  executing  that  last  favor  must  console  and 
satify  the  kindness  of  your  heart.  For  myself,  I  shall  die  as  I 
have  lived — alone.  All  fellowship  with  my  griefs  would  seem 
tome  strange  and  unwelcome." 

I  would  not  suffer  Glanville  to  proceed.  I  interrupted  him 
with  fresh  arguments  and  entreaties,  to  which  he  seemed  at 
last  to  submit,  and  I  was  in  the  firm  hope  of  having  conquered 
his  determination,  when  we  were  startled  by  a  sudden  and 
violent  noise  in  the  hall. 

"  It  is  Thornton,"  said  Glanville  calmly.  "  I  told  them  not 
to  admit  him,  and  he  is  forcing  his  way." 

Scarcely  had  Sir  Reginald  said  this,  before  Thornton  burst 
abruptly  into  the  room. 

Although  it  was  scarcely  noon,  he  was  more  than  half  in- 
toxicated, and  his  eyes  swam  in  his  head  with  a  maudlin  ex- 
pression of  triumph  and  insolence  as  he  rolled  towards  us. 

"  Oh,  oh  !  Sir  Reginald,"  he  said,  "  thought  of  giving  me 
the  slip,  eh  ?  Your  d — d  servants  said  you  were  out  ;  but  I 
soon  silenced  them.  'Egad,  I  made  them  as  nimble  as  cows  in 
a  cage — I  have  not  learnt  the  use  of  my  fists  for  nothing.  So, 
you're  going  abroad  to-morrow  ;  without  my  leave,  too, — 
pretty  good  joke  that,  indeed.  Come,  come,  my  brave  fellow, 
you  need  not  scowl  at  me  in  that  way.  Why,  you  look  as  surly 
as  a  butcher's  dog  with  a  broken  head. 

Glanville,  who  was  livid  with  ill-suppressed  rage,  rose 
haughtily. 

"  Mr.  Thornton,"  he  said,  in  a  calm  voice,  although  he  was 
trembling  in  his  extreme  passion  from  head  to  foot,  "  I  am  not 
now  prepared  to  submit  to  your  insolence  and  intrusion.  You 
will  leave  this  room  instantly.  If  you  have  any  further  demands 
upon  me,  I  will  hear  them  to-night,  at  any  hour  you  please  to 
appoint." 

"  No,  no,  my  fine  fellow,"  said  Thornton,  with  a  coarse 
chuckle  ;  "  you  have  as  much  wit  as  three  folks, — two  fools, 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         35! 

and  a  madman  !  but  you  won't  do  me,  for  all  that.  The  instant 
my  back  is  turned  yours  will  be  turned  too  ;  and  by  the  time 
I  call  again,  your  honor  will  be  half-way  to  Calais.  But,  bless 
my  stars,  Mr.  Pelham,  is  that  you  ?  I  really  did  not  see  you 
before  ;  I  suppose  you  are  not  in  the  secret  ? " 

"  I  have  no  secrets  from  Mr.  Pelham,"  said  Glanville  ;  "nor 
do  I  care  if  you  discuss  the  whole  of  your  nefarious  transactions 
with  me  in  his  presence.  Since  you  doubt  my  word,  it  is  be- 
neath my  dignity  to  vindicate  it,  and  your  business  can  as  well 
be  despatched  now  as  hereafter.  You  have  heard  rightly  that 
I  intend  leaving  England  to-morrow  :  and  now,  sir,  what  is 
your  will  ? " 

"  By  G — ,  Sir  Reginald  Glanville  !  "  exclaimed  Thornton, 
who  seemed  stung  to  the  quick  by  Glanville's  contemptuous 
coldness,  "  you  shall  not  leave  England  without  my  leave.  Ay, 
you  may  frown,  but  I  say  you  shall  not  ;  nay,  you  shall  not 
budge  a  foot  from  this  very  room  unless  I  cry,  '  Be  it  so  ' !  " 

Glanville  could  no  longer  restrain  himself.  He  would  have 
sprung  towards  Thornton,  but  I  seized  and  arrested  him.  I 
read,  in  the  malignant  and  incensed  countenance  of  his  per- 
secutor, all  the  danger  to  which  a  single  imprudence  would 
have  exposed  him,  and  I  trembled  for  his  safety. 

I  whispered,  as  I  forced  him  again  to  his  seat,  "  Leave  me 
alone  to  settle  with  this  man,  and  I  will  endeavor  to  free  you 
from  him."  I  did  not  tarry  for  his  answer,  but,  turning  to 
Thornton,  said  to  him  coolly  but  civilly  :  "  Sir  Reginald  Glan- 
ville has  acquainted  me  with  the  nature  of  your  very  extraordi- 
nary demands  upon  him.  Did  he  adopt  my  advice,  he  would 
immediately  place  the  affair  in  the  hands  of  his  legal  advisers. 
His  ill-health,  however,  his  anxiety  to  leave  England,  and  his 
wish  to  sacrifice  almost  everything  to  quiet,  induce  him,  rather 
than  take  this  alternative,  to  silence  your  importunities  by  ac- 
ceding to  claims,  however  illegal  and  unjust.  If,  therefore,  you 
now  favor  Sir  Reginald  with  your  visit,  for  the  purpose  of 
making  a  demand  previous  to  his  quitting  England,  and  which, 
consequently,  will  be  the  last  to  which  he  will  concede,  you 
will  have  the  goodness  to  name  the  amount  of  your  claim,  and 
should  it  be  reasonable,  I  think  Sir  Reginald  will  authorize  me 
to  say  that  it  shall  be  granted." 

"Well,  now!"  cried  Thornton,  "that's  what  I  call  talking 
like  a  sensible  man  :  and  though  I  am  not  fond  of  speaking  to 
a  third  person  when  the  principal  is  present,  yet  as  you  have 
always  been  very  civil  to  me,  I  have  no  objection  to  treating 
with  you,  Please  to  give  Sir  Reginald  this  paper ;  if  be  will 


352  PELHAM  ; 

but  take  the  trouble  to  sign  it,  he  may  go  to  the  Falls  of  Niagara 
for  me  !  I  won't  interrupt  him — so  he  had  better  put  pen  to 
paper,  and  get  rid  of  me  at  once,  for  I  know  I  am  as  welcome 
as  snow  in  harvest/' 

I  took  the  paper,  which  was  folded  up,  and  gave  it  to  Glan- 
ville,  who  leant  back  on  his  chair,  half  exhausted  by  rage.  He 
glanced  his  eye  over  it,  and  then  tore  it  into  a  thousand 
pieces,  and  trampled  it  beneath  his  feet :  "  Go  !  "  exclaimed 
he,  "  Go,  rascal,  and  do  your  worst !  I  will  not  make  myself 
a  beggar  to  enrich  you.  My  whole  fortune  would  but  answer 
this  demand." 

"  Do  as  you  please,  Sir  Reginald,"  answered  Thornton, 
grinning;  "do  as  you  please.  It's  not  a  long  walk  from 
hence  to  Bow  Street,  nor  a  long  swing  from  Newgate  to  the 
gallows;  do  as  you  please,  Sir  Reginald,  do  as  you  please  !" 
and  the  villain  flung  himself  at  full  length  on  the  ottoman, 
and  eyed  Glanville's  countenance  with  an  easy  and  malicious 
effrontery  which  seemed  to  say  :  "  I  know  you  will  struggle, 
but  you  cannot  help  yourself." 

I  took  Glanville  aside  :  "  My  dear  friend,"  said  I,  "  believe 
me,  that  I  share  your  indignation  to  the  utmost  ;  but  we 
must  do  anything  rather  than  incense  this  wretch  :  what  is 
his  demand  ?" 

"  I  speak  literally,"  replied  Glanville,  "  when  I  say  that  it 
covers  nearly  the  whole  of  my  fortune,  except  such  lands  as 
are  entailed  upon  the  male  heir  ;  for  my  habits  of  extrava- 
gance have  very  much  curtailed  my  means  :  it  is  the  exact 
sum  I  had  set  apart  for  a  marriage  gift  to  my  sister,  in  addi- 
tion to  her  own  fortune." 

"Then,"  said  I,  "you  shall  give  it  him;  your  sister  has 
no  longer  any  necessity  for  a  portion  :  her  marriage  with  me 
prevents  that — and  with  regard  to  yourself,  your  wants  are  not 
many — such  as  it  is,  you  can  share  my  fortune." 

"No — no — no!"  cried  Glanville;  and  his  generous  nature 
lashing  him  into  fresh  rage,  he  broke  from  my  grasp,  and 
moved  menacingly  to  Thornton.  That  person  still  lay  on  the 
ottoman  regarding  us  with  an  air  half  contemptuous,  half- 
exulting. 

"  Leave  the  room  instantly,"  said  Glanville,  "  or  you  will 
repent  it !  " 

"  What !  another  murder,  Sir  Reginald  !  "  said  Thornton. 
"  No,  I  am  not  a  sparrow,  to  have  my  neck  wrenched  by  a 
woman's  hand  like  yours.  Give  me  my  demand — sign  the 
paper,  and  I  will  leave  you  for  ever  and  a  day." 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         353 

"I  will  commit  no  such  folly,"  answered  Glanville.  "If 
you  will  accept  five  thousand  pounds,  you  shall  have  that 
sum  ;  but  were  the  rope  on  my  neck,  you  should  not  wring 
from  me  a  farthing  more  !  " 

"  Five  thousand  !  "  repeated  Thornton  ;  a  mere  drop — a 
child's  toy — why,  you  are  playing  with  me,  Sir  Reginald — nay, 
I  am  a  reasonable  man,  and  will  abate  a  trifle  or  so  of  my  just 
claims,  but  you  must  not  take  advantage  of  my  good  nature. 
Make  me  snug  and  easy  for  life — let  me  keep  a  brace  of 
hunters — a  cosy  box — a  bit  of  land  to  it,  and  a  girl  after  my 
own  heart,  and  I'll  say  quits  with  you.  Now,  Mr.  Pelham, 
who  is  a  long-headed  gentleman,  and  does  not  spit  on  his  oum 
blanket,  knows  well  enough  that  one  can't  do  all  this  for  five 
thousand  pounds  ;  make  it  a  thousand  a  year — that  is,  give  me  a 
cool  twenty  thousand — and  I  won't  exact  another  sou.  'Egad, 
this  drinking  makes  one  deuced  thirsty — Mr.  Pelham,  just 
reach  me  that  glass  of  water — /  hear  bees  in  my  head !  " 

Seeing  that  I  did  not  stir,  Thornton  rose,  with  an  oath 
against  pride  :  and  swaggering  towards  the  table,  took  up  a 
tumbler  of  water,  which  happened  accidentally  to  be  there; 
close  by  it  was  the  picture  of  the  ill-fated  Gertrude.  The 
gambler,  who  was  evidently  so  intoxicated  as  to  be  scarcely 
conscious  of  his  motions  or  words  (otherwise,  in  all  probability, 
he  would,  to  borrow  from  himself  a  proverb  illustrative  of  his 
profession,  have  played  his  cards  better),  took  up  the  portrait. 

Glanville  saw  the  action,  and  was  by  his  side  in  an  instant. 
"Touch  it  not  with  your  accursed  hands  !  "  he  cried,  in  an  un- 
governable fury.  "  Leave  your  hold  this  instant,  or  I  will  dash 
you  to  pieces." 

Thornton  kept  a  firm  grip  of  the  picture.  "  Here's  a  to-do  ! " 
said  he -tauntingly  ;  "  was  there  ever  such  work  about  a  poor 
(using  a  word  too  coarse  for  repetition)  before  ?" 

The  word  had  scarcely  passed  his  lips,  when  he  was  stretched 
at  his  full  length  upon  the  ground.  Nor  did  Glanville  stop 
there.  With  all  the  strength  of  his  nervous  frame,  fully  re- 
quited for  the  debility  of  disease  by  the  fury  of  the  moment, 
he  seized  the  gamester  as  if  he  had  been  an  infant,  and  dragged 
him  to  the  door :  the  next  moment  I  heard  his  heavy  frame 
rolling  down  the  stairs  with  no  decorous  slowness  of  descent. 

Glanville  reappeared.  "Good  Heavens  !"  I  cried,  "what 
have  you  done  ?  "  But  he  was  too  lost  in  his  still  unappeased 
rage  to  heed  me.  He  leaned,  panting  and  breathless,  against  the 
wall,  with  clenched  teeth,  and  a  flashing  eye,  rendered  more 
terribly  bright  by  the  feverish  lustre  natural  to  his  disease. 


354  PELHAM  ; 

Presently  I  heard  Thornton  reascend  the  stairs  ;  he  opened 
the  door,  and  entered  but  one  pace.  Never  did  human  face 
wear  a  mere  fiendish  expression  of  malevolence  and  wrath. 
"  Sir  Reginald  Glanville,"  he  said,  "  I  thank  you  heartily.  He 
must  have  iron  nails  who  scratches  a  bear.  You  have  sent  me 
a  challenge,  and  the  hangman  shall  bring  you  my  answer. 
Good-day,  Sir  Reginald — good-day,  Mr.  Pelham";  and  so 
saying,  he  shut  the  door,  and  rapidly  descending  the  stairs  was 
out  of  the  house  in  an  instant. 

"  There  is  no  time  to  be  lost,"  said  I ;  "  order  post-horses 
to  your  carriage,  and  begone  instantly  ! " 

"  You  are  wrong,"  replied  Glanville,  slowly  recovering  him- 
self. "  I  must  not  fly  ;  it  would  be  worse  than  useless  ;  it 
would  seem  the  strongest  argument  against  me.  Remember 
that  if  Thornton  has  really  gone  to  inform  against  me,  the 
officers  of  justice  would  arrest  me  long  before  I  reached  Calais  ; 
or  even  if  I  did  elude  their  pursuit  so  far,  I  should  be  as  much 
in  their  power  in  France  as  in  England  ;  but,  to  tell  you  the 
truth,  I  do  not  think  Thornton  will  inform.  Money,  to  a 
temper  like  his,  is  a  stronger  temptation  than  revenge  ;  and, 
before  he  has  been  three  minutes  in  the  air,  he  will  perceive 
the  foUy  of  losing  the  golden  harvest  he  may  yet  make  of  me, 
for  the  sake  of  a  momentary  passion.  No  ;  my  best  plan  will 
be  to  wait  here  till  to-mprrow,  as  I  originally  intended.  In 
the  mean  while,  he  will,  in  all  probability,  pay  me  another  visit, 
and  I  will  make  a  compromise  with  his  demands." 

Despite  my  fears,  I  could  not  but  see  the  justice  of  these 
observations,  the  more  especially  as  a  still  stronger  argument 
than  any  urged  by  Glanville  forced  itself  on  my  mind  ;  this 
was  my  internal  conviction  that  Thornton  himself  was  guilty 
of  the  murder  of  Tyrrell,  and  that,  therefore,  he  would,  for 
his  own  sake,  avoid  the  new  and  particularizing  scrutiny  into 
that  dreadful  event  which  his  accusation  of  Glanville  would 
necessarily  occasion. 

Both  of  us  were  wrong.  Villains  have  passions  as  well  as 
honest  men  ;  and  they  will,  therefore,  forfeit  their  own  interest 
in  obedience  to  those  passions,  while  the  calculations  of  pru- 
dence invariably  suppose  that  that  interest  is  their  only  rule. 

Glanville  was  so  enfeebled  by  his  late  excitement,  that  he  be- 
sought me  once  more  to  leave  him  to  himself.  I  did  so  under 
a  promise  that  he  would  admit  me  again  in  the  evening  ;  for 
notwithstanding  my  persuasion  that  Thornton  would  not  put 
his  threats  into  execution,  I  could  not  conquer  a  latent  fore- 
boding of  dread  and  evil. 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         $$$ 

CHAPTER  LXXVIII. 
"Away  with  him  to  prison — where  is  the  provost?" — Measure  for  Measure. 

I  RETURNED  home  perplexed  by  a  thousand  contradictory 
thoughts  upon  the  scene  I  had  just  witnessed  ;  the  more  I 
reflected  the  more  I  regretted  the  fatality  of  the  circumstances 
that  had  tempted  Glanville  to  accede  to  Thornton's  demand. 
True  it  was  that  Thornton's  self-regard  might  be  deemed  a 
sufficient  guarantee  for  his  concealment  of  such  extortionate 
transactions  :  moreover,  it  was  difficult  to  say,  when  the  for- 
midable array  of  appearances  against  Glanville  was  considered, 
whether  any  other  line  of  conduct  than  that  which  he  had 
adopted  could,  with  safety,  have  been  pursued. 

His  feelings,  too,  with  regard  to  the  unfortunate  Gertrude,  I 
could  fully  enter  into,  and  sympathize  with  ;  but,  in  spite  of 
all  these  considerations,  it  was  with  an  inexpressible  aversion 
that  I  contemplated  the  idea  of  that  tacit  confession  of  guilt 
which  his  compliance  with  Thornton's  exactions  so  unhappily 
implied  ;  it  was,  therefore,  a  thought  of  some  satisfaction,  that 
my  rash  and  hasty  advice  of  a  still  further  concession  to  those 
extortions  had  not  been  acceded  to.  My  present  intention,  in 
the  event  of  Glanville's  persevering  to  reject  my  offer  of 
accompanying  him,  was  to  remain  in  England,  for  the  purpose 
of  sifting  the  murder ;  nor  did  I  despair  of  accomplishing  this 
most  desirable  end,  through  the  means  of  Dawson  ;  for  there 
was  but  little  doubt  in  my  own  mind  that  Thornton  and  him- 
self were  the  murderers,  and  I  hoped  that  address  or  intimida- 
tion might  win  a  confession  from  Dawson,  although  it  might 
probably  be  unavailing  with  his  hardened  and  crafty  associate. 

Occupied  with  these  thoughts,  I  endeavored  to  while  away 
the  hours  till  the  evening  summoned  me  once  more  to  the 
principal  object  of  my  reflections.  The  instant  Glanville's 
door  was  opened  I  saw,  by  one  glance,  that  I  had  come  too 
late  ;  the  whole  house  was  in  confusion  ;  several  of  the  servants 
were  in  the  hall,  conferring  with  each  other,  with  that  mingled 
mystery  and  agitation  which  always  accompany  the  fears  and 
conjectures  of  the  lower  classes.  I  took  aside  the  valet,  who 
had  lived  with  Glanville  for  some  years,  and  who  was  remark- 
ably attached  to  his  master,  and  learned  that,  somewhat  more 
than  an  hour  before,  Mr.  Thornton  had  returned  to  the  house, 
accompanied  by  three  men  of  very  suspicious  appearance. 
"  In  short,  sir,"  said  the  man,  lowering  his  voice  to  a  whisper, 
"  I  knew  one  of  them  by  sight ;  he  was  Mr.  S.,  the  Bow  Street 
officer ;  with  these  men  Sir  Reginald  left  the  house,  merely 


356  PELHAM  ; 

saying,  in  his  usual  quiet  manner,  that  he  did  not  know  when 
he  should  return." 

I  concealed  my  perturbation,  and  endeavored,  as  far  as  I 
was  able,  to  quiet  the  evident  apprehensions  of  the  servant. 
"  At  all  events,  Seymour,"  said  I,  "  I  know  that  I  may  trust 
you  sufficiently  to  warn  you  against  mentioning  the  circum- 
stance any  further  ;  above  all,  let  me  beg  of  you  to  stop  the 
mouths  of  those  idle  loiterers  in  the  hall — and  be  sure  that 
you  do  not  give  any  unnecessary  alarm  to  Lady  and  Miss 
Glanville." 

The  poor  man  promised,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  that  he  would 
obey  my  injunctions  ;  and  with  a  calm  face,  but  a  sickening 
heart,  I  turned  away  from  the  house.  I  knew  not  whither  to 
direct  my  wanderings  ;  fortunately  I  recollected  that  I  should, 
in  all  probability,  be  among  the  first  witnesses  summoned  on 
Glanville's  examination,  and  that,  perhaps,  by  the  time  I  reached 
home  I  might  already  receive  an  intimation  to  that  effect ;  accord- 
ingly I  retraced  my  steps,  and  on  re-entering  my  hotel  was  told 
by  the  waiter,  with  a  mysterious  air,  that  a  gentleman  was  waiting 
to  see  me.  Seated  by  the  window  in  my  room,  and  wiping  his 
forehead  with  a  red  silk  pocket-handkerchief,  was  a  short, 
thickset  man,  with  a  fiery  and  rugose  complexion,  not  alto- 
gether unlike  the  aspect  of  a  mulberry  :  from  underneath  a 
pair  of  shaggy  brows  peeped  two  singularly  small  eyes,  which 
made  ample  amends,  by  their  fire,  for  their  deficiency  in  size — 
they  were  black,  brisk,  and  somewhat  fierce  in  their  expression. 
A  nose  of  that  shape  vulgarly  termed  bottled  formed  the  "  arch 
sublime,"  the  bridge,  the  twilight,  as  it  were,  between  the  pur- 
ple sunset  of  one  cheek,  and  the  glowing  sunrise  of  the  other. 
His  mouth  was  small,  and  drawn  up  at  each  corner,  like  a 
purse — there  was  something  sour  and  crabbed  about  it ;  if  it 
was  like  a  purse,  it  was  the  purse  of  a  miser  ;  a  fair  round  chin 
had  not  been  condemned  to  single  blessedness — on  the  con- 
trary, it  was  like  a  farmer's  pillion,  and  carried  double  ;  on 
either  side  of  a  very  low  forehead,  hedged  round  by  closely 
mowed  bristles  of  a  dingy  black,  was  an  enormous  ear,  of  the 
same  intensely  rubicund  color  as  that  inflamed  pendant  of 
flesh  which  adorns  the  throat  of  an  enraged  turkey-cock — ears 
so  large,  and  so  red,  I  never  beheld  before  ;  they  were  some- 
thing preposterous. 

This  enchanting  figure,  which  was  attired  in  a  sober  suit  of 
leaden  black,  relieved  by  a  long  gold  watch-chain,  and  a  plen- 
tiful decoration  of  seals,  rose  at  my  entrance  with  a  solemn 
grunt,  and  a  still  more  solemn  bow.  I  shut  the  door  carefully, 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          357 

and  asked  him  his  business.  As  I  had  foreseen,  it  was  a  request 

from  the  magistrate  at to  attend  a  private  examination  on 

the  ensuing  day. 

"Sad  thing,  sir,  sad  thing,"  said  Mr. ;  "it  would  be 

quite  shocking  to  hang  a  gentleman  of  Sir  Reginald  Glanville's 
quality — so  distinguished  an  orator,  too ;  sad  thing,  sir,  very 
sad  thing." 

"  Oh  ! "  said  I  quietly,  "  there  is  not  a  doubt  as  to  Sir  Regi- 
nald's innocence  of  the  crime  laid  to  him  ;  and,  probably, 

Mr. ,  I  may  call  in  your  assistance  to-morrow  to  ascertain 

the  real  murderers — I  think  I  am  possessed  of  some  clue." 

Mr. pricked  up  his  ears — those  enormous  ears  !  "  Sir," 

he  said,  "I  shall  be  happy  to  accompany  you — very  happy; 
give  me  the  clue  you  speak  of,  and  I  will  soon  find  the  villains. 
Horrid  thing,  sir,  murder — very  horrid.  It  is  too  hard  that  a 
gentleman  cannot  take  his  ride  home  from  a  race,  or  a  merry- 
making, but  he  must  have  his  throat  cut  from  ear  to  ear — ear 
to  ear,  sir";  and  with  these  words,  the  speaker's  own  auricular 
protuberances  seemed,  as  in  conscious  horror,  to  glow  with  a 
double  carnation. 

"  Very  true,  Mr. !  "  said  I,  "  say  I  will  certainly  attend 

the  examination — till  then,  good-by  !  "  At  this  hint  my  fiery- 
faced  friend  made  a  low  bow,  and  blazed  out  of  the  room,  like 
the  ghost  of  a  kitchen  fire. 

Left  to  myself  I  revolved,  earnestly  and  anxiously,  every  cir- 
cumstance that  could  tend  to  diminish  the  appearances  against 
Glanville,  and  direct  suspicion  to  that  quarter  where  I  was 
confident  the  guilt  rested.  In  this  endeavor  I  passed  the  time 
till  morning,  when  I  fell  into  an  uneasy  slumber  which  lasted 
some  hours  ;  on  waking,  it  was  almost  time  to  attend  the  mag- 
istrate's appointment.  I  dressed  hastily,  and  soon  found  my- 
self in  the  room  of  inquisition. 

It  is  impossible  to  conceive  a  more  courteous,  and  yet  more 
equitable  man,  than  the  magistrate  whom  I  had  the  honor  of 
attending.  He  spoke  with  great  feeling  on  the  subject  for 
which  I  was  summoned  ;  owned  to  me,  that  Thornton's  state- 
ment was  very  clear  and  forcible  ;  trusted  that  my  evidence 
would  contradict  an  account  which  he  was  very  loth  to  believe  ; 
and  then  proceeded  to  the  question.  I  saw,  with  an  agony 
which  I  can  scarcely  express,  that  all  my  answers  made  power- 
fully against  the  cause  1  endeavored  to  support.  I  was  obliged 
to  own  that  a  man  on  horseback  passed  me  soon  after  Tyrrell 
had  quitted  me  ;  that,  on  coming  to  the  spot  where  the  de- 
ceased was  found,  I  saw  this  same  horseman  on  the  very  place  j 


358  PELHAM  ; 

that  I  believed,  nay,  that  I  was  sure  (how  could  I  evade  this  ?) 
that  this  man  was  Reginald  Glanville. 

Farther  evidence  Thornton  had  already  offered  to  adduce. 
He  could  prove,  that  the  said  horseman  had  been  mounted  on 
a  gray  horse,  sold  to  a  person  answering  exactly  to  the  de- 
scription of  Sir  Reginald  Glanville  ;  moreover,  that  that 
horse  was  yet  in  the  stables  of  the  prisoner.  He  produced  a 
letter,  which,  he  said,  he  had  found  upon  the  person  of  the  de- 
ceased, signed  by  Sir  Reginald  Glanville,  and  containing  the 
most  deadly  threats  against  Sir  John  Tyrrell's  life  ;  and,  to 
crown  all,  he  called  upon  me  to  witness  that  we  had  both  dis- 
covered upon  the  spot  where  the  murder  was  committed,  a 
picture  belonging  to  the  prisoner,  since  restored  to  him,  and 
now  in  his  possession. 

At  the  close  of  this  examination,  the  worthy  magistrate  shook 
his  head,  in  evident  distress  !  "  I  have  known  Sir  Reginald 
Glanville  personally,"  said  he  ;  "in  private  as  in  public  life,  I 
have  always  thought  him  the  most  upright  and  honorable  of 
men.  I  feel  the  greatest  pain  in  saying  that  it  will  be  my  duty 
fully  to  commit  him  for  trial." 

I  interrupted  the  magistrate  ;  I  demanded  that  Dawson 
should  be  produced.  "I  have  already,"  said  he,  "inquired  of 
Thornton  respecting  that  person,  whose  testimony  is  of  evident 
importance ;  he  tells  me  that  Dawson  has  left  the  country,  and 
can  give  me  no  clue  to  his  address." 

"He  lies!"  cried  I,  in  the  abrupt  anguish  of  my  heart  ; 
"  his  associate  shall  be  produced.  Hear  me  ;  I  have  been, 
next  to  Thornton,  the  chief  witness  against  the  prisoner,  and 
when  I  swear  to  you  that,  in  spite  of  all  appearances,  I  most 
solemnly  believe  in  his  innocence,  you  may  rely  on  my  assur- 
ance, that  there  are  circumstances  in  his  favor  which  have  not 
yet  been  considered,  but  which  I  will  pledge  myself  hereafter 
to  adduce."  I  then  related  to  the  private  ear  of  the  magis- 
trate my  firm  conviction  of  the  guilt  of  the  accuser  himself. 
I  dwelt  forcibly  upon  the  circumstance  of  Tyrrell's  having 
mentioned  to  me  that  Thornton  was  aware  of  the  large  sum 
he  had  on  his  person,  and  of  the  strange  disappearance  of  that 
sum,  when  his  body  was  examined  in  the  fatal  field.  After 
noting  how  impossible  it  was  that  Glanville  could  have  stolen 
the  money,  I  insisted  strongly  on  the  distressed  circumstances, 
the  dissolute  habits,  and  the  hardened  character,  of  Thornton, 
I  recalled  to  the  mind  of  the  magistrate  the  singularity  of 
Thornton's  absence  from  home  when  I  called  there,  and  the 
doubtful  nature  of  his  excuse  :  much  more  I  said,  but  all  equally 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         359 

in  vain.  The  only  point  where  I  was  successful,  was  in  press- 
ing for  a  delay,  which  was  granted  to  the  passionate  manner 
in  which  I  expressed  my  persuasion  that  I  could  confirm  my 
suspicions  by  much  stronger  data  before  the  reprieve  expired. 
"  It  is  very  true,"  said  the  righteous  magistrate,  "  that  there 
are  appearances  somewhat  against  the  witness ;  but  certainly 
not  tantamount  to  anything  above  a  slight  suspicion.  If,  how- 
ever, you  positively  think  you  can  ascertain  any  facts  to  eluci- 
date this  mysterious  crime,  and  point  the  inquiries  of  justice  to 
another  quarter,  I  will  so  far  strain  the  question  as  to  remand 
the  prisoner  to  another  day — let  us  say  the  day  after  to-morrow. 
If  nothing  important  can  before  then  be  found  in  his  favor,  h.e 
must  be  committed  for  trial." 


CHAPTER  LXXIX. 

"  Nihil  est  furacius  illo ; 
Non  fuit  Autolyci  tarn  piceaia  manus." — MARTIAL. 

"  Quo  teneatn  vultus  mutantem  Protea  nodo?  " — HORAT. 

WHEN  I  left  the  magistrate  I  knew  not  whither  my  next  step 
should  tend.  There  was,  however,  no  time  to  indulge  the  idle 
stupor  which  Glanville's  situation  at  first  occasioned  ;  with  a 
violent  effort  I  shook  it  off,  and  bent  all  my  mind  to  discover 
the  best  method  to  avail  myself,  to  the  utmost,  of  the  short  re- 
prieve I  had  succeeded  in  obtaining.  At  length,  one  of  those 
sudden  thoughts  which,  from  their  suddenness,  appear  more 
brilliant  than  they  really  are,  flashed  upon  my  mind.  I  remem- 
bered the  accomplished  character  of  Mr.  Job  Jonson,  and  the 
circumstance  of  my  having  seen  him  in  company  with  Thorn- 
ton. Now,  although  it  was  not  very  likely  that  Thornton 
should  have  made  Mr.  Jonson  his  confidant  in  any  of  those 
affairs  which  it  was  so  essentially  his  advantage  to  confine  ex- 
clusively to  himself  ;  yet  the  acuteness  and  penetration  visible 
in  the  character  of  the  worthy  Job  might  not  have  lain  so  fal- 
low during  his  companionship  with  Thornton  but  that  it  might 
have  made  some  discoveries  which  would  considerably  assist 
me  in  my  researches  ;  besides,  as  it  is  literally  true  in  the  sys- 
tematized roguery  of  London  that  "birds  of  a  feather  flock 
together,"  it  was  by  no  means  unlikely  that  the  honest  Job 
might  be  honored  with  the  friendship  of  Mr.  Dawson,  as  well 
as  the  company  of  Mr.  Thornton  ;  in  which  case  I  looked  for- 
ward with  greater  confidence  to  the  detection  of  the  notable  pair. 

I  could  not,  however,  conceal  from  myself,  that  this  was  but 


360  PELHAM  ; 

a  very  unstable  and  ill-linked  chain  of  reasoning,  and  there 
were  moments  when  the  appearances  against  Glanville  were  so 
close  a  semblance  of  truth  that  all  my  friendship  could  scarcely 
drive  from  my  mind  an  intrusive  suspicion  that  he  might  have 
deceived  me,  and  that  the  accusation  might  not  be  groundless. 

This  unwelcome  idea  did  not,  however,  at  all  lessen  the  rapid- 
ity with  which  I  hastened  towards  the  memorable  gin-shop 
where  I  had  whilom  met  Mr.  Gordon  :  there  I  hoped  to  find 
either  the  address  of  that  gentleman,  or  of  the  "  Club  "  to 
which  he  had  taken  me,  in  company  with  Tringie  and  Dart- 
more  :  either  at  this  said  club,  or  of  that  said  gentleman,  I 
.thought  it  not  unlikely  that  I  might  hear  some  tidings  of  the 
person  of  Mr.  Job  Jonson — if  not,  I  was  resolved  to  return  to 
the  office,  and  employ  Mr. ,  my  mulberry-cheeked  acquaint- 
ance of  the  last  night,  in  search  after  the  holy  Job. 

Fate  saved  me  a  world  of  trouble  :  as  I  was  hastily  walking 
onwards,  I  happened  to  turn  my  eyes  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
way,  and  discovered  a  man  dressed  in  what  the  newspapers  term 
the  very  height  of  fashion,  viz.,  in  the  most  ostentatious  attire 
that  ever  flaunted  at  Margate,  or  blazed  in  the  Palais  Royal. 
The  nether  garments  of  \\~\\spetit  maitre  consisted  of  a  pair  of 
blue  tight  pantaloons,  profusely  braided,  and  terminating  in 
Hessian  boots,  adorned  with  brass  spurs  of  the  most  burnished 
resplendency  ;  a  black  velvet  waistcoat  studded  with  gold  stars 
was  backed^  a  green  frock  coat,  covered,  notwithstanding  the 
heat  of  the  weather,  with  fur,  and  frogged  and  cordonnt  with 
the  most  lordly  indifference  both  as  to  taste  and  expense  :  a 
small  French  hat,  which  might  not  have  been  much  too  large 

for  my  lord  of ,  was  set  jauntily  in  the  centre  of  a  system 

of  long  black  curls,  which  my  eye,  long  accustomed  to  penetrate 
the  arcana  of  habilatory  art,  discovered  at  once  to  be  a  wig.  A 
fierce  black  mustachio,  very  much  curled,  wandered  lovingly 
from  the  upper  lip  towards  the  eyes,  which  had  an  unfortunate 
prepossession  for  eccentricity  in  their  direction.  To  complete 
the  picture,  we  must  suppose  some  coloring  ;  and  this  consisted 
in  a  very  nice  and  delicate  touch  of  the  rouge  pot,  which 
could  not  be  called  by  so  harsh  a  term  as  paint — say  rather 
that  it  was  a  tinge! 

No  sooner  had  I  set  my  eyes  upon  this  figure  than  I  crossed 
over  to  the  side  of  the  way  which  it  was  adorning,  and  followed 
its  motions  at  a  respectful  but  observing  distance. 

At  length  my  freluquct  marched  into  a  jeweller's  shop  in  Ox- 
ford Street  ;  with  a  careless  air  I  affected,  two  minutes  after- 
wards, to  saunter  into  the  same  shop  ;  the  shopman  was  show- 


6U,  ADVENTURES   OF    A    GENTLEMAN.  361 

ing  his  bijouterie  to  him  of  the  Hessians  with  the  greatest 
respect  ;  and,  beguiled  by  the  splendor  of  the  wig  and  waist- 
coat, turned  me  over  to  his  apprentice.  Another  time  I 
might  have  been  indignant  at  perceiving  that  the  air  noble,  on 
which  I  so  much  piqued  myself,  was  by  no  means  so  univer- 
sally acknowledged  as  I  had  vainly  imagined  ;  at  that  mo- 
ment I  was  too  occupied  to  think  of  my  insulted  dignity. 
While  I  was  pretending  to  appear  wholly  engrossed  with  some 
seals,  I  kept  a  vigilant  eye  on  my  superb  fellow-customer;  at 
last  I  saw  him  secrete  a  diamond  ring,  and  thrust  it,  by  a  sin- 
gular movement  of  the  forefinger,  up  the  fur  cuff  of  his  capa- 
cious sleeve  ;  presently  some  other  article  of  minute  size  disap- 
peared in  the  like  manner. 

The  gentleman  then  rose,  expressed  himself  very  well  satisfied 
by  the  great  taste  of  the  jeweller,  said  he  should  look  in  again 
on  Saturday,  when  he  hoped  the  set  he  had  ordered  would  be 
completed,  and  gravely  took  his  departure  amidst  the  prodigal 
bows  of  the  shopman  and  his  helpmates.  Meanwhile  I  bought 
a  seal  of  small  value,  and  followed  my  old  acquaintance,  for  the 
reader  has  doubtless  discovered,  long  before  this,  that  the  gen- 
tleman was  no  other  than  Mr.  Job  Jonson. 

Slowly  and  struttingly  did  the  man  of  two  virtues  perform 
the  whole  pilgrimage  of  Oxford  Street.  He  stopped  at  Cum- 
berland Gate,  and,  looking  round,  with  an  air  of  gentlemanlike 
indecision,  seemed  to  consider  whether  or  not  he  should  join  the 
loungers  in  the  park :  fortunately  for  the  well-bred  set,  his 
doubts  terminated  in  their  favor,  and  Mr.  Job  Jonson  entered 
the  park.  Every  one  happened  to  be  thronging  to  Kensington 
Gardens,  and  the  man  of  two  virtues  accordingly  cut  across 
the  park  as  the  shortest,  but  the  least  frequented,  way  thither, 
in  order  to  confer  upon  the  seekers  of  pleasure  the  dangerous 
honor  of  his  company. 

As  soon  as  I  perceived  that  there  were  but  few  persons  in  the 
immediate  locality  to  observe  me,  and  that  those  consisted  of 
a  tall  guardsman  and  his  wife,  a  family  of  young  children  and 
their  nursery-maid,  and  a  debilitated  East  India  captain,  walk- 
ing for  the  sake  of  his  liver,  I  overtook  the  incomparable  Job, 
made  him  a  low  bow,  and  thus  reverently  accosted  him  : 

"  Mr.  Jonson,  I  am  delighted  once  more  to  meet  you — suffer 
me  to  remind  you  of  the  very  pleasant  morning  I  passed  with 
you  in  the  neighborhood  of  Hampton  Court.  I  perceive,  by 
your  mustachios  and  military  dress,  that  you  have  entered  the 
army,  since  that  day  ;  I  congratulate  the  British  troops  on  so 
admirable  an  acquisition." 


362  PELHAM  ; 

Mr.  Jonson's  assurance  forsook  him  for  a  moment,  but  he 
lost  no  time  in  regaining  a  quality  which  was  so  natural  to  his 
character.  He  assumed  a  fierce  look,  and,  relevant  sa  mous- 
tache, sourit  amerement,  like  Voltaire's  governor.  *  "  D —  me, 
sir,"  he  cried,  "  do  you  mean  to  insult  me  ?  I  know  none  of 
your  Mr.  Jonsons,  and  I  never  set  my  eyes  upon  you  before." 

"  Lookye,  my  dear  Mr.  Job  Jonson,"  replied  I,  "  as  I  can  prove 
not  only  all  I  say,  but  much  more  that  I  shall  not  say — such  as 
your  little  mistakes  just  now,  at  the  jeweller's  shop  in  Oxford 
Street,  etc.,  etc.,  perhaps  it  would  be  better  for  you  not  to  oblige 
me  to  create  a  mob,  and  give  you  in  charge — pardon  my  abrupt^ 
ness  of  speech — to  a  constable!  Surely  there  will  be  no  need  of 
such  a  disagreeable  occurrence,  when  I  assure  you,  in  the  first 
place,  that  I  perfectly  forgive  you  for  ridding  me  of  the  unnec- 
essary comforts  of  a  pocket-book  and  handkerchief,  the  un- 
philosophical  appendage  of  a  purse,and  the  effeminate  love-token 
of  a  gold  locket  ;  nor  is  this  all — it  is  perfectly  indifferent  to 
me  whether  you  levy  contributions  on  jewellers  or  gentlemen, 
and  I  am  very  far  from  wishing  to  intrude  upon  your  harmless 
occupations,  or  to  interfere  with  your  innocent  amusements.  I 
see,  Mr.  Jonson,  that  you  are  beginning  to  understand  me  ;  let 
me  facilitate  so  desirable  an  end  by  an  additional  information, 
that,  since  it  is  preceded  with  a  promise  to  open  my  purse,  may 
tend  somewhat  to  open  your  heart  ;  I  am  at  this  moment  in 
great  want  of  your  assistance — favor  me  with  it,  and  I  will  pay 
you  to  your  soul's  content.  Are  we  friends  now,  Mr.  Job 
Jonson  ?" 

My  old  friend  burst  out  into  a  loud  laugh.  "  Well,  sir,  I  must 
say  that  your  frankness  enchants  me.  I  can  no  longer  dissem- 
ble with  you  ;  indeed,  I  perceive  it  would  be  useless  ;  besides, 
I  always  adored  candor — it  is  my  favorite  virtue.  Tell  me  how 
I  can  help  you,  and  you  may  command  my  services." 

"  One  word,"  said  I  :  "  Will  you  be  open  and  ingenuous  with 
me  ?  I  shall  ask  you  certain  questions,  not  in  the  least  affect- 
ing your  own  safety,  but  to  which,  if  you  would  serve  me,  you 
must  give  me  (and,  since  candor  is  your  favorite  virtue,  this 
will  be  no  difficult  task)  your  most  candid  replies.  To 
strengthen  you  in  so  righteous  a  course,  know  also  that  the 
said  replies  will  come  verbatim  before  a  court  of  law,  and  that, 
therefore,  it  will  be  a  matter  of  prudence  to  shape  them  as 
closely  to  the  truth  as  your  inclinations  will  allow.  To  counter- 
balance this  information,  which,  I  own,  is  not  very  inviting,  I 
repeat  that  the  questions  asked  you  will  be  wholly  foreign  to 

*  Don  Fernand  d' Ibarra,  in  the  "  Candide" 


OR,    ADVENTURES  OF    A   GENTLEMAtf.  363 

your  own  affairs,  and  that,  should  you  prove  of  that  assistance 
to  me  which  I  anticipate,  I  will  so  testify  my  gratitude  as  to 
place  you  beyond  the  necessity  of  pillaging  rural  young  gentle- 
men and  credulous  shopkeepers  for  the  future  ;  all  your  present 
pursuits  need  thenceforth  only  be  carried  on  for  your  private 
amusement.  " 

"  I  repeat,  that  you  may  command  me,"  returned  Mr.  Jonson, 
gracefully  putting  his  hand  to  his  heart. 

"  Pray,  then,"  said  1,  "  to  come  at  once  to  the  point,  how 
long  have  you  been  acquainted  with  Mr.  Thomas  Thornton  ?" 

"  For  some  months  only,"  returned  Job,  without  the  least 
embarrassment. 

"  And  Mr.  Dawson  ?  "  said  I. 

A  slight  change  came  over  Jonson's  countenance  ;  he  hesi- 
tated. "Excuse  me,  sir,"  said  he  ;  "but  I  am,  really, perfectly 
unacquainted  with  you,  and  I  may  be  falling  into  some  trap  of 
the  law,  of  which,  Heaven  knows,  I  am  as  ignorant  as  a  babe 
unborn." 

1  saw  the  knavish  justice  of  this  remark  :  and  in  my  pre- 
dominating zeal  to  serve  Glanville,  I  looked  upon  the  incon- 
venience of  discovering  myself  to  a  pickpocket  and  sharper  as  a 
consideration  not  worth  attending  to.  In  order,  therefore,  to 
remove  his  doubts,  and,  at  the  same  time,  to  have  a  more  secret 
and  undisturbed  place  for  our  conference,  I  proposed  to  him 
to  accompany  me  home.  At  first  Mr.  Jonson  demurred,  but  I 
soon  half-persuaded  and  half-intimidated  him  into  compliance. 

Not  particularly  liking  to  be  publicly  seen  with  a  person  of 
his  splendid  description  and  celebrated  character,  I  made  him 
walk  before  me  to  Mivart's,  and  I  followed  him  closely,  never 
turning  my  eye,  either  to  the  right  or  the  left,  lest  he  should 
endeavor  to  escape  me.  There  was  no  fear  of  this,  for  Mr. 
Jonson  was  both  a  bold  and  a  crafty  man,  and  it  required,  per- 
haps, but  little  of  his  penetration  to  discover  that  I  was  no 
officer  nor  informer,  and  that  my  communication  had  been  of 
a  nature  likely  enough  to  terminate  in  his  advantage  ;  there 
was,  therefore,  but  little  need  of  his  courage  in  accompanying 
me  to  my  hotel. 

There  were  a  good  many  foreigners  of  rank  at  Mivart's,  and 
the  waiters  took  my  companion  for  an  ambassador  at  least :  he 
received  their  homage  with  the  mingled  dignity  and  conde- 
scension natural  to  so  great  a  man. 

As  the  day  was  now  far  advanced,  I  deemed  it  but  hospitable 
to  offer  Mr.  Job  Jonson  some  edible  refreshment.  With  the 
frankness  on  which  he  so  justly  valued  himself,  he  accepted 


364  PELHAM  ; 

my  proposal.  I  ordered  some  cold  meat,  and  two  bottles  of 
wine  ;  and,  mindful  of  old  maxims,  deferred  my  business  till 
his  repast  was  over.  I  conversed  with  him  merely  upon  ordi- 
nary topics,  and,  at  another  time,  should  have  been  much 
amused  by  the  singular  mixture  of  impudence  and  shrewdness 
which  formed  the  stratum  of  his  character. 

At  length  his  appetite  was  satisfied,  and  one  of  the  bottles 
emptied  ;  with  the  other  before  him,  his  body  easily  reclining 
on  my  library  chair,  his  eyes  apparently  cast  downwards,  but 
ever  and  anon  glancing  up  at  my  countenance  with  a  searching 
and  curious  look,  Mr.  Job  Jonson  prepared  himself  for  our 
conference  ;  accordingly  I  began  : 

"  You  say  that  you  are  acquainted  with  Mr.  Dawson  ;  where 
is  he  at  present?" 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  Jonson  laconically. 

"  Come,"  said  I,  "  no  trifling — if  you  do  not  know,  you  can 
learn." 

"  Possibly  I  can  in  the  course  of  time,"  rejoined  honest  Job. 

"  If  you  cannot  tell  me  his  residence  at  once,"  said  I,  "our 
conference  is  at  an  end  ;  that  is  a  leading  feature  in  my  in- 
quiries." 

Jonson  paused  before  he  replied  :  "  You  have  spoken  to  me 
frankly  ;  let  us  do  nothing  by  halves — tell  me,  at  once,  the 
nature  of  the  service  I  can  do  you,  and  the  amount  of  my  re- 
ward, and  then  you  shall  have  my  answer.  With  respect  to 
Dawson,  I  will  confess  to  you  that  I  did  once  know  him  well, 
and  that  we  have  done  many  a  mad  prank  together,  which  I 
should  not  like  the  bugaboos  and  bulkies  to  know  ;  you  will, 
therefore,  see  that  I  am  naturally  reluctant  to  tell  you  anything 
about  him,  unless  your  honor  will  inform  me  of  the  why  and 
the  wherefore." 

I  was  somewhat  startled  by  this  speech,  and  by  the  shrewd, 
cunning  eye  which  dwelt  upon  me,  as  it  was  uttered  ;  but,  how- 
ever, I  was  by  no  means  sure  that  acceding  to  his  proposal 
would  not  be  my  readiest  and  wisest  way  to  the  object  I  had 
in  view.  Nevertheless,  there  were  some  preliminary  questions 
to  be  got  over  first :  perhaps  Dawson  might  be  too  dear  a  friend 
to  the  candid  Job  for  the  latter  to  endanger  his  safety  :  or  per- 
haps (and  this  was  more  probable)  Jonson  might  be  perfectly 
ignorant  of  anything  likely  to  aid  me  ;  in  this  case  my  com- 
munication would  be  useless  ;  accordingly  I  said,  after  a  short 
consideration  : 

"  Patience,  my  dear  Mr.  Jonson — patience  ;  you  shall  know 
all  in  good  time  ;  meanwhile  I  must — even  for  Dawson's  sake — 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OP  A  GENTLEMAN.         365 

question  you  blindfold.  What,  now,  if  your  poor  friend  Daw- 
son  were  in  imminent  danger,  and  you  had,  if  it  so  pleased  you, 
the  power  to  save  him  ;  would  you  not  do  all  you  could?" 

The  small,  coarse  features  of  Mr.  Job  grew  blank  with  a 
curious  sort  of  disappointment :  "  Is  that  all  ?  "  said  he.  "  No  ! 
Unless  I  were  well  paid  for  my  pains  in  his  behalf,  he  might  go 
to  Botany  Bay  for  all  I  care." 

"  What  !  "  I  cried,  in  a  tone  of  reproach,  "  is  this  your  friend- 
ship? I  thought,  just  now,  that  you  said  Dawson  had  been  an 
old  and  firm  associate  of  yours." 

"An  old  one,  your  honor  ;  but  not  a  firm  one.  A  short  time 
ago,  I  was  in  great  distress,  and  he  and  Thornton  had,  deuce 
knows  how  !  about  two  thousand  between  them  ;  but  I  could 
not  worm  a  stiver  out  of  Dawson — that  gripe-all,  Thornton,  got 
it  all  from  him." 

"  Two  thousand  pounds  ! "  said  I,  in  a  calm  voice,  though 
my  heart  beat  violently ;  "that's  a  great  sum  for  a  poor  fellow 
like  Dawson.  How  long  ago  is  it  since  he  had  it  ?" 

"About  two  or  three  months,"  answered  Jonson. 

"  Pray,"  I  asked,  "have  you  seen  much  of  Dawson  lately?" 

"  I  have,"  replied  Jonson. 

"Indeed  !  "  said  I.  "  I  thought  you  told  me,  just  now,  that 
you  were  unacquainted  with  his  residence?" 

"  So  I  am,"  replied  Jonson  coldly,  "it  is  not  at  his  own  house 
that  I  ever  see  him." 

I  was  silent,  for  I  was  now  rapidly  and  minutely  weighing 
the  benefits  and  disadvantages  of  trusting  Jonson  as  he  had  de- 
sired me  to  do. 

To  reduce  the  question  to  the  simplest  form  of  logic,  he  had 
either  the  power  of  assisting  my  investigation,  or  he  had  not ; 
if  not,  neither  could  he  much  impede  it,  and  therefore  it  mat- 
tered little  whether  he  was  in  my  confidence  or  not  ;  if  he  had 
the  power,  the  doubt  was,  whether  it  would  be  better  for  me  to 
benefit  by  it  openly,  or  by  stratagem  ;  that  is,  whether  it  were 
wiser  to  state  the  whole  case  to  him,  or  continue  to  gain  what- 
ever I  was  able  by  dint  of  a  blind  examination.  Now,  the  dis- 
advantage of  candor  was,  that  if  it  were  his  wish  to  screen 
Dawson  and  his  friend,  he  would  be  prepared  to  do  so,  and 
even  to  put  them  on  their  guard  against  my  suspicions  ;  but 
the  indifference  he  had  testified  with  regard  to  Dawson  seemed 
to  render  this  probability  very  small.  The  benefits  of  candor 
were  more  prominent :  Job  would  then  be  fully  aware  that  his 
own  safety  was  not  at  stake  ;  and  should  I  make  it  more  his 
interest  to  serve  the  innocent  than  the  guilty,  I  should  hava 


366  t>ELHAM  ; 

the  entire  advantage,  not  only  of  any  actual  information  he 
might  possess,  but  of  his  skill  and  shrewdness  in  providing  ad- 
ditional proof,  or  at  least  suggesting  advantageous  hints. 
Moreover,  in  spite  of  my  vanity  and  opinion  of  my  own  pene- 
tration, I  could  not  but  confess  that  it  was  unlikely  that  my 
cross-examination  would  be  very  successful  with  so  old  and 
experienced  a  sinner  as  Mr.  Jonson.  "Set  a  thief  to  catch  a 
thief,"  is  among  the  wisest  of  wise  sayings,  and  accordingly  I 
resolved  in  favor  of  a  disclosure. 

Drawing  my  chair  close  to  Jonson's,  and  fixing  my  eye  upon 
his  countenance,  I  briefly  proceeded  to  sketch  Glanville's  situ- 
ation (only  concealing  his  name),  and  Thornton's  charges.  I 
mentioned  my  own  suspicions  of  the  accuser,  and  my  desire  of 
discovering  Dawson,  whom  Thornton  appeared  to  me  artfully 
to  secrete.  Lastly,  I  concluded  with  a  solemn  promise,  that  if 
my  listener  could,  by  any  zeal,  exertion,  knowledge,  or  con- 
trivance of  his  own,  procure  the  detection  of  the  men  who,  I 
was  convinced,  were  the  murderers,  a  pension  of  three  hundred 
pounds  a  year  should  be  immediately  settled  upon  him. 

During  my  communication  the  patient  Job  sat  mute  and 
still,  fixing  his  eyes  on  the  ground,  and  only  betraying,  by  an 
occasional  elevation  of  the  brows,  that  he  took  the  slightest 
interest  in  the  tale  :  when,  however,  I  touched  upon  the  pero- 
ration, which  so  tenderly  concluded  with  the  mention  of  three 
hundred  pounds  a  year,  a  visible  change  came  over  the  coun- 
tenance of  Mr.  Jonson.  He  rubbed  his  hands  with  an  air  of 
great  content,  and  one  sudden  smile  broke  over  his  features, 
and  almost  buried  his  eyes  amid  the  intricate  host  of  wrinkles 
it  called  forth  :  the  smile  vanished  as  rapidly  as  it  came,  and 
Mr.  Job  turned  round  to  me  with  a  solemn  and  sedate  aspect. 

"  Well,  your  honor,"  said  he,  "  I'm  glad  you've  told  me  all  : 
We  must  see  what  can  be  done.  As  for  Thornton,  I'm  afraid 
we  shan't  make  much  out  of  him,  for  he's  an  old  offender, 
whose  conscience  is  as  hard  as  a  brickbat ;  but  of  Dawson  I 
hope  better  things.  However,  you  must  let  me  go  now,  for  this 
is  a  matter  that  requires  a  vast  deal  of  private  consideration. 
I  shall  call  upon  you  to-morrow,  sir,  before  ten  o'clock,  since 
you  say  matters  are  so  pressing  ;  and,  I  trust,  you  will  then  see 
that  you  have  no  reason  to  repent  of  the  confidence  you  have 
placed  in  a  man  of  honor" 

So  saying,  Mr.  Job  Jonson  emptied  the  remainder  of  the 
bottle  into  his  tumbler,  held  it  up  to  the  light  with  the  gusto  of 
a  connoisseur,  and  concluded  his  potations  with  a  hearty  smack 
pf  the  lips,  followed  by  a  long  sigh. 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         367 

"  Ah,  your  honor  !  "  said  he,  "  good  wine  is  a  marvellous 
whetter  of  the  intellect ;  but  your  true  philosopher  is  always 
moderate  :  for  my  part,  I  never  exceed  my  two  bottles." 

And  with  these  words  this  true  philosopher  took  his  de- 
parture. 

No  sooner  was  I  freed  from  his  presence  than  my  thoughts 
flew  to  Ellen  ;  I  had  neither  been  able  to  call  nor  write  the 
whole  day  ;  and  I  was  painfully  fearful  lest  my  precaution  with 
Sir  Reginald's  valet  had  been  frustrated,  and  the  alarm  of  his 
imprisonment  had  reached  her  and  Lady  Glanville.  Harassed 
by  this  fear,  I  disregarded  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  and  imme- 
diately repaired  to  Berkeley  Square. 

Lady  and  Miss  Glanville  were  alone  and  at  dinner  :  the  ser- 
vant spoke  with  his  usual  unconcern.  "  They  are  quite  well  ?  " 
said  I,  relieved,  but  still  anxious  :  and  the  servant  replying  in 
the  affirmative,  I  again  returned  home,  and  wrote  a  long  and, 
I  hope,  consoling  letter  to  Sir  Reginald. 

CHAPTER  LXXX. 

"  K.  Henry.   Lord  Say,  Jack  Cade  hath  sworn  to  have  thy  head. 
Say.   Ay,  but  I  hope  your  Highness  shall  have  his." 

— Second  Part  of  Henry  IV. 

PUNCTUAL  to  his  appointment  the  next  morning  came  Mr. 
Job  Jonson.  I  had  been  on  the  rack  of  expectation  for  the 
last  three  hours  previous  to  his  arrival,  and  the  warmth  of  my 
welcome  must  have  removed  any  little  diffidence  with  which 
so  shamefaced  a  gentleman  might  possibly  have  been  troubled. 

At  my  request  he  sat  himself  down,  and  seeing  that  my 
breakfast  things  were  on  the  table,  remarked  what  a  famous 
appetite  the  fresh  air  always  gave  him.  I  took  the  hint,  and 
pushed  the  rolls  toward  him.  He  immediately  fell  to  work, 
and,  for  the  next  quarter  of  an  hour,  his  mouth  was  far  too 
well  occupied  for  the  intrusive  impertinence  of  words.  At  last 
the  things  were  removed,  and  Mr.  Jonson  began. 

"  I  have  thought  well  over  the  matter,  your  honor,  and  I  be- 
lieve we  can  manage  to  trounce  the  rascals — for  I  agree  with 
you,  that  there  is  not  a  doubt  that  Thornton  and  Dawson  are 
the  real  criminals  ;  but  the  affair,  sir,  is  one  of  the  greatest 
difficulty  and  importance — nay,  of  the  greatest  personal  dan- 
ger. My  life  maybe  the  forfeit  of  my  desire  to  serve  you — you 
will  not,  therefore,  be  surprised  at  my  accepting  your  liberal 
offer  of  three  hundred  a  year,  should  I  be  successful  ;  although 
I  do  assure  you,  sir,  that  it  was  my  original  intention  to  reject 


368  PELHAM  j 

all  recompense,  for  I  am  naturally  benevolent,  and  love  doing 
a  good  action.  Indeed,  sir,  if  I  were  alone  in  the  world,  I 
should  scorn  any  remuneration,  for  virtue  is  its  own  reward ; 
but  a  real  moralist,  your  honor,  must  not  forget  his  duties  on 
any  consideration,  and  I  have  a  little  family  to  whom  my  loss 
would  be  an  irreparable  injury  ;  this,  upon  my  honor,  is  my 
only  inducement  for  taking  advantage  of  your  generosity  "; 
and,  as  the  moralist  ceased,  he  took  out  of  his  waistcoat  pocket 
a  paper,  which  he  handed  to  me  with  his  usual  bow  of  defer- 
ence. 

I  glanced  over  it — it  was  a  bond,  apparently  drawn  up  in  all 
the  legal  formalities,  pledging  myself,  in  case  Job  Jonson,  be- 
fore the  expiration  of  three  days,  gave  that  information  which 
should  lead  to  the  detection  and  punishment  of  the  true  mur- 
derers of  Sir  John  Tyrrell,  deceased,  to  ensure  to  the  said  Job 
Jonson  the  yearly  annuity  of  three  hundred  pounds. 

"It  is  with  much  pleasure  that  I  shall  sign  this  paper,"  said 
I ;  "  but  allow  me,  par  parent/the,  to  observe,  that  .since  you 
only  accept  the  annuity  for  the  sake  of  benefiting  your  little 
family,  in  case  of  your  death  this  annuity,  ceasing  with  your 
life,  will  leave  your  children  as  penniless  as  at  present." 

"  Pardon  me,  your  honor,"  rejoined  Job,  not  a  whit  daunted 
at  the  truth  of  my  remark,  "  I  can  insure!" 

"  I  forgot  that,"  said  I,  signing,  and  restoring  the  paper  ; 
"  and  now  to  business." 

Jonson  gravely  and  carefully  looked  over  the  interesting  doc- 
ument I  returned  to  him,  and  carefully  lapping  it  in  three  en- 
velopes, inserted  it  in  a  huge  red  pocket-book  which  he  thrust 
into  an  innermost  pocket  in  his  waistcoat. 

"  Right,  sir,"  said  he  slowly  ;  "  to  business.  Before  I  begin, 
you  must,  however,  promise  me,  upon  your  honor  as  a  gentle- 
man, the  strictest  secrecy  as  to  my  communications." 

I  readily  agreed  to  this,  so  far  as  that  secrecy  did  not  impede 
my  present  object  ;  and  Job,  being  content  with  this  condi- 
tion, resumed. 

"  You  must  forgive  me  if,  in  order  to  arrive  at  the  point  in 
question,  I  set  out  from  one  which  may  seem  to  you  a  little 
distant." 

I  nodded  my  assent,  and  Job  continued. 

"  I  have  known  Dawson  for  some  years  ;  my  acquaintance 
with  him  commenced  at  Newmarket,  for  I  have  always  had  a 
slight  tendency  to  the  turf.  He  was  a  wild,  foolish  fellow, 
easily  led  into  any  mischief,  but  ever  the  first  to  sneak  out  of 
it  ;  in  short,  when  he  became  one  of  us,  which  his  extrava- 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          369 

gance  soon  compelled  him  to  do,  we  considered  him  as  a  very 
serviceable  tool,  but  one  who,  while  he  was  quite  wicked 
enough  to  begin  a  bad  action,  was  much  too  weak  to  go 
through  with  it  ;  accordingly  he  was  often  employed,  but 
never  trusted.  By  the  word  us,  which  I  see  has  excited  your 
curiosity,  I  merely  mean  a  body  corporate,  established  fur- 
tively and  restricted  solely  to  exploits  on  the  turf.  I  think  it 
right  to  mention  this  (continued  Mr.  Jonson  aristocratically), 
because  I  have  the  honor  to  belong  to  many  other  societies  to 
which  Dawson  could  never  have  been  admitted.  Well,  sir, 
our  club  was  at  last  broken  up,  and  Dawson  was  left  to  shift 
for  himself.  His  fathei  was  still  alive,  and  the  young  hopeful, 
having  quarrelled  with  him,  was  in  the  greatest  distress.  He 
came  to  me  with  a  pitiful  story,  and  a  more  pitiful  face  ;  so 
I  took  compassion  upon  the  poor  devil,  and  procured  him,  by 
dint  of  great  interest,  admission  into  a  knot  of  good  fellows, 
whom  I  visited,  by  the  way,  last  night.  Here  I  took  him 
under  my  especial  care  ;  and,  as  far  as  I  could,  with  such  a 
dull-headed  dromedary,  taught  him  some  of  the  most  elegant 
arts  of  my  profession.  However,  the  ungrateful  dog  soon  stole 
back  to  his  old  courses,  and  robbed  me  of  half  my  share  of  a 
booty  to  which  I  had  helped  him  myself.  I  hate  treachery  and 
ingratitude,  your  honor ;  they  are  so  terribly  ungentlemanlike  ! 

"  I  then  lost  sight  of  him  till  between  two  and  three  months  ago, 
when  he  returned  to  town  and  attended  our  meetings  in  com- 
pany with  Tom  Thornton,  who  had  been  chosen  a  member  of 
the  club  some  months  before.  Since  we  had  met  Dawson's 
father  had  died,  and  I  thought  his  flash  appearance  in  town 
arose  from  his  new  inheritance.  I  was  mistaken  ;  old  Dawson 
had  tied  up  the  property  so  tightly  that  the  young  one  could 
not  scrape  enough  to  pay  his  debts  ;  accordingly,  before  he 
came  to  town  he  gave  up  his  life  interest  in  the  property  to 
his  creditors.  However  that  be,  Master  Dawson  seemed  at 
the  top  of  Fortune's  wheel.  He  kept  his  horses,  and  sported 
the  set  to  champagne  and  venison  ;  in  short,  there  would  have 
been  no  end  to  his  extiavagance  had  not  Thornton  sucked 
him  like  a  leech. 

"  It  was  about  that  time  that  I  asked  Dawson  for  a  trifle  to 
keep  me  from  gaol  ;  for  I  was  ill  in  bed,  and  could  not  help  my- 
self. Will  you  believe,  sir,  that  the  rascal  told  me  to  go  and 
be  d — d,  and  Thornton  said,  amen  ?  I  did  not  forget  the  in- 
gratitude of  my  prottgt,  though,  when  I  recovered  I  appeared 
entirely  to  do  so.  No  sooner  could  I  walk  about  than  I  re- 
lieved all  my  necessities,  He  is  but  a  fool  who  starves,  with 


370  PELHAM  ; 

all  London  before  him  !  In  proportion  as  my  finances  im- 
proved, Dawson's  visibly  decayed.  With  them  decreased  also 
his  spirits.  He  became  pensive  and  downcast  ;  never  joined 
any  of  our  parties,  and  gradually  grew  quite  a  useless  member 
of  the  corporation.  To  add  to  his  melancholy,  he  was  one 
morning  present  at  the  execution  of  an  unfortunate  associate 
of  ours  ;  this  made  a  deep  impression  upon  him  ;  from  that 
moment  he  became  thoroughly  moody  and  despondent.  He 
was  frequently  heard  talking  to  himself,  could  not  endure  to 
be  left  alone  in  the  dark,  and  began  rapidly  to  pine  away. 

"  One  night  when  he  and  I  were  seated  together,  he  asked  me  if 
I  never  repented  of  my  sins,  and  then  added,  with  a  groan,  that 
I  had  never  committed  the  heinous  crime  he  had.  I  pressed 
him  to  confess,  but  he  would  not.  However,  I  coupled  that 
half  avowal  with  his  sudden  riches,  and  the  mysterious  circum- 
stances of  Sir  John  Tyrrell's  death  ;  and  dark  suspicions  came 
into  my  mind.  At  that  time,  and  indeed  ever  since  Dawson  re- 
appeared, we  were  often  in  the  habit  of  discussing  the  notorious 
murder  which  then  engrossed  public  attention  ;  and  as  Dawson 
and  Thornton  had  been  witnesses  on  the  inquest,  we  frequently 
referred  to  them  respecting  it.  Dawson  always  turned  pale, 
and  avoided  the  subject ;  Thornton,  on  the  contrary,  brazened 
it  out  with  his  usual  impudence.  Dawson's  aversion  to  the  men- 
tion of  the  murder  now  came  into  my  remembrance  with  double 
weight,  to  strengthen  my  suspicions  ;  and,  on  conversing  with 
one  or  two  of  our  comrades,  I  found  that  my  doubts  were  more 
than  shared,  and  that  Dawson  had  frequently,  when  unusually 
oppressed  with  his  hypochondria,  hinted  at  his  committal  of 
some  dreadful  crime,  and  at  his  unceasing  remorse  for  it. 

"  By  degrees  Dawson  grew  worse  and  worse  :  his  health  de- 
cayed, he  started  at  a  shadow  ;  drank  deeply,  and  spoke,  in  his 
intoxication,  words  that  made  the  hairs  of  our  green  men  stand 
on  end. 

"  We  must  not  suffer  this,'  said  Thornton,  whose  hardy  ef- 
frontery enabled  him  to  lord  it  over  the  jolly  boys  as  if  he  were 
their  chief :  '  his  ravings  and  humdurgeon  will  unman  all  our 
youngsters.'  And  so,  under  this  pretence,  Thornton  had  the 
unhappy  man  conveyed  away  to  a  secret  asylum,  known  only 
to  the  chiefs  of  the  gang,  and  appropriated  to  the  reception  of 
persons  who,  from  the  same  weakness  as  Dawson,  were  likely 
to  endanger  others  or  themselves.  There  many  a  poor  wretch 
has  been  secretly  immured,  and  never  suffered  to  revisit  the 
light  of  Heaven.  The  moon's  minions,  as  well  as  the  monarch's, 
must  have  their  state  prisoners,  and  their  state  victims, 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.          371 

"  Well,  sir,  I  shall  not  detain  you  much  longer.  Last  night, 
after  your  obliging  confidence,  I  repaired  to  the  meeting  ;  Thorn- 
ton was  there,  and  very  much  out  of  humor.  When  our  mess- 
mates dropped  off,  and  we  were  alone  at  one  corner  of  the  room, 
1  began  talking  to  him  carelessly  about  his  accusation  of  your 
friend,  who,  I  have  since  learnt,  is  Sir  Reginald  Glanville — an 
old  friend  of  mine  too  ;  ay,  you  may  look,  sir,  but  I  can  stake 
my  life  to  having  picked  his  pocket  one  night  at  the  opera ! 
Thornton  was  greatly  surprised  at  my  early  intelligence  of  a 
fact  hitherto  kept  so  profound  a  secret ;  however,  I  explained 
it  away  by  a  boast  of  my  skill  in  acquiring  information  ;  and  he 
then  incautiously  let  out  that  he  was  exceedingly  vexed  with 
himself  for  the  charge  he  had  made  against  the  prisoner,  and 
very  uneasy  at  the  urgent  inquiries  set  on  foot  for  Dawson. 
More  and  more  convinced  of  his  guilt,  I  quitted  the  meeting, 
and  went  to  Dawson's  retreat. 

"For  fear  of  his  escape,  Thornton  had  had  him  closely  con- 
fined in  one  of  the  most  secret  rooms  in  the  house.  His  sol- 
itude and  the  darkness  of  the  place,  combined  with  his  remorse, 
had  worked  upon  a  mind,  never  too  strong,  almost  to  insanity. 
He  was  writhing  with  the  most  acute  and  morbid  pangs  of  con- 
science that  my  experience,  which  has  been  pretty  ample,  ever 
witnessed.  The  old  hag,  who  is  the  Hecate  (you  see,  sir,  I 
have  had  a  classical  education)  of  the  place,  was  very  Ipth  to 
admit  me  to  him,  for  Thornton  had  bullied  her  into  a  great  fear 
of  the  consequences  of  disobeying  his  instructions  ;  but  she  did 
not  dare  to  resist  my  orders.  Accordingly  I  had  a  long  inter- 
view with  the  unfortunate  man  ;  he  firmly  believes  that  Thorn- 
ton intends  to  murder  him  ;  and  says  that  if  he  could  escape 
from  his  dungeon,  he  would  surrender  himself  to  the  first  mag- 
istrate he  could  find. 

"  I  told  him  that  an  innocent  man  had  been  apprehended 
for  the  crime  of  which  I  knew  he  and  Thornton  were  guilty  ; 
and  then  taking  upon  myself  the  office  of  a  preacher,  I  ex- 
horted him  to  atone,  as  far  as  possible,  for  his  past  crime,  by 
a  full  and  faithful  confession,  that  would  deliver  the  innocent 
and  punish  the  guilty.  I  held  out  to  him  the  hope  that  this 
confession  might  perhaps  serve  the  purpose  of  king's  evidence, 
and  obtain  him  a  pardon  for  his  crime  ;  and  I  promised  to  use 
my  utmost  zeal  and  diligence  to  promote  his  escape  from  his 
present  den. 

"  He  said,  in  answer,  that  he  did  not  wish  to  live ;  that  he 
suffered  the  greatest  tortures  of  mind ;  and  that  the  only  com- 
fort earth  held  out  to  him  would  be  to  ease  his  remorse  by  a 


372  PELHAM  ; 

full  acknowledgment  of  his  crime,  and  to  hope  for  future 
mercy  by  expiating  his  offence  on  the  scaffold  ;  all  this,  and 
much  more  to  the  same  purpose,  the  hen-hearted  fellow  told 
me  with  sighs  and  groans.  I  would  fain  have  taken  his  con- 
fession on  the  spot,  and  carried  it  away  with  me,  but  he  re- 
fused to  give  it  to  me,  or  to  any  one  but  a  parson,  whose 
services  he  implored  me  to  procure  him.  I  told  him,  at  first, 
that  the  thing  was  impossible  ;  but,  moved  by  his  distress  and 
remorse,  I  promised,  at  last,  to  bring  one  to-night,  who  should 
both  administer  spiritual  comfort  to  him  and  receive  his 
deposition.  My  idea  at  the  moment  was  to  disguise  myself  in 
the  dress  of  the  pater  cove*  and  perform  the  double  job  ; 
since  then  I  have  thought  of  a  better  scheme. 

"As  my  character,  you  see,  your  honor,  is  not  so  highly 
prized  by  the  magistrates  as  it  ought  to  be,  any  confession 
made  to  me  might  not  be  of  the  same  value  as  if  it  were  made 
to  any  one  else — to  a  gentleman  like  you,  for  instance  ;  and, 
moreover,  it  will  not  do  for  me  to  appear  in  evidence  against 
any  of  the  fraternity  ;  and  for  two  reasons :  first,  because  I 
have  sworn  a  solemn  oath  never  to  do  so  ;  and  secondly, 
because  I  have  a  very  fair  chance  of  joining  Sir  John  Tyrrell 
in  kingdom  come  if  I  do.  My  present  plan,  therefore,  if  it 
meets  your  concurrence,  would  be  to  introduce  your  honor  as 
a  parson,  and  for  you  to  receive  the  confession,  which,  indeed, 
you  might  take  down  in  writing.  This  plan,  I  candidly  con- 
fess, is  not  without  great  difficulty,  and  some  danger  ;  for  I 
have  not  only  to  impose  yon  upon  Dawson  as  a  priest,  but 
also  upon  Brimstone  Bess  as  one  of  pur  jolly  boys  ;  since  I 
need  not  tell  you  that  any  real  parson  might  knock  a  long 
time  at  her  door  before  it  would  be  opened  to  him.  You  must, 
therefore,  be  as  mum  as  a  mole  unless  she  cants  to  you,  and 
your  answers  must  then  be  such  as  I  shall  dictate  ;  otherwise 
she  may  detect  you,  and  should  any  of  the  true  men  be  in  the 
house,  we  should  both  come  off  worse  than  we  went  in." 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Job,"  replied  I,  "  there  appears  to  me  to  be  a 
much  easier  plan  than  all  this  ;  and  that  is,  simply  to  tell  the 
Bow  Street  officers  where  Dawson  may  be  found,  and  I  think 
they  would  be  able  to  carry  him  away  from  the  arms  of  Mrs. 
Brimstone  Bess,  without  any  great  difficulty  or  danger." 

Jonson  smiled. 

"  I  should  not  long  enjoy  my  annuity,  your  honor,  if  I  were 
to  set  the  runners  upon  our  best  hive.  I  should  be  stung  to 


order, 


*  Gypsy  slang — a  parson,  or  minister— but  generally  applied  to  a  priest  of  the  lowest 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         373 

death  before  the  week  were  out.  Even  you,  should  you 
accompany  me  to-nigh£,  will  never  know  where  the  spot  is 
situated,  nor  would  you  discover  it  again  if  you  searched  all 
London,  with  the  whole  police  at  your  back.  Besides,  Dawson 
is  not  the  only  person  in  the  house  for  whom  the  law  is  hunt- 
ing ;  there  are  a  score  others  whom  I  have  no  desire  to  give  up 
to  the  gallows,  hid  among  the  odds  and  ends  of  the  house,  as 
snug  as  plums  in  a  pudding.  Honor  forbid  that  I  should 
betray  them — and  for  nothing,  too !  No,  sir,  the  only  plan  I 
can  think  of  is  the  one  I  proposed  ;  if  you  do  not  approve  of 
it  (and  it  certainly  is  open  to  exception),  I  must  devise  some 
other :  but  that  may  require  delay." 

"  No,  my  good  Job,"  replied  I,  "  I  am  ready  to  attend  you  : 
but  could  we  not  manage  to  release  Dawson,  as  well  as  take 
his  deposition  ?  His  personal  evidence  is  worth  all  the  written 
ones  in  the  world." 

"  Very  true,"  answered  Job,  "  and  if  it  be  possible  to  give 
Bess  the  slip  we  will.  However,  let  us  not  lose  what  we  may 
get  by  grasping  at  what  we  may  not ;  let  us  have  the  confession 
first,  and  we'll  try  for  the  release  afterwards.  I  have  another 
reason  for  this,  sir,  which,  if  you  knew  as  much  of  penitent 
prigs  as  I  do,  you  would  easily  understand.  However,  it  may 
be  explained  by  the  old  proverb  of  '  the  devil  was  sick,'  etc. 
As  long  as  Dawson  is  stowed  away  in  a  dark  hole  and  fancies 
devils  in  every  corner,  he  may  be  very  anxious  to  make  con- 
fessions which,  in  broad  daylight,  may  not  seem  to  him  so 
desirable.  Darkness  and  solitude  are  strange  stimulants  to  the 
conscience,  and  we  may  as  well  not  lose  any  advantage  they 
give  us." 

"You  are  an  admirable  reasoner,"  cried  I,  "and  I  am 
impatient  to  accompany  you — at  what  hour  shall  it  be  ? " 

"  Not  much  before  midnight,"  answered  Jonson  ;  "but  your 
honor  must  go  back  to  school  and  learn  lessons  before  then. 
Suppose  Bess  were  to  address  you  thus  :  '  Well,  you  parish  bull 
prig,  are  you  for  lushing  jackey,  or  pattering  in  the  hum  box  ! '  * 
I'll  be  bound  you  would  not  know  how  to  answer." 

"I  am  afraid  you  are  right,  Mr.  Jonson,"  said  I,  in  a  tone  of 
self-humiliation. 

"  Never  mind,"  replied  the  compassionate  Job,  "  we  are  all 
born  ignorant — knowledge  is  not  learnt  in  a  day.  A  few  of 
the  fiiost  common  and  necessary  words  in  our  St.  Giles's  Greek 
I  shall  be  able  to  teach  you  before  night  ;  and  I  will,  before- 
hand, prepare  the  old  lady  for  seeing  a  young  hand  in  the 

*  Well,  you  parson  thief,  are  you  for  drinking  gin,  or  talking  in  the  pulpit  ? 


374  PELHAM  ; 

profession.  As  I  must  disguise  you  before  we  go,  and  that 
cannot  well  be  done  here,  suppose  you  dine  with  me  at  my 
lodgings." 

"  I  shall  be  too  happy,"  said  I,  not  a  little  surprised  at  the 
offer. 

"  I  am  in  Charlotte  Street,  Bloomsbury,  No.  — .  You  must 
ask  for  me  by  the  name  of  Captain  De  Courcy,"  said  Job,  with 
dignity  :  "and  we'll  dine  at  five,  in  order  to  have  time  for  your 
preliminary  initiation." 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  said  I ;  and  Mr.  Job  Jonson  then  rose, 
and,  reminding  me  of  my  promise  of  secrecy,  took  his  de- 
parture. 

CHAPTER  LXXXI. 

"  Pectus  prseceptis  format  amicis." — HOR. 
"  Est  quodam  prodire  tenus,  si  non  datur  ultra." — Ibid. 

WITH  all  my  love  of  enterprise  and  adventure,  I  cannot  say 
that  I  should  have  particularly  chosen  the  project  before  me 
for  my  evening's  amusement,  had  I  been  left  solely  to  my  own 
will  ;  but  Glanville's  situation  forbade  me  to  think  of  self  :  and, 
so  far  from  shrinking  at  the  danger  to  which  I  was  about  to  be 
exposed,  I  looked  forward  with  the  utmost  impatience  to  the 
hour  of  rejoining  Jonson. 

There  was  yet  a  long  time  upon  my  hands  before  five  o'clock  ; 
and  the  thought  of  Ellen  left  me  no  doubt  how  it  should  be 
passed.  I  went  to  Berkeley  Square  ;  Lady  Glanville  rose 
eagerly  when  I  entered  the  drawing-room. 

"  Have  you  seen  Reginald  ?  "  said  she,  "  or  do  you  know 
where  he  has  gone  ?  " 

I  answered,  carelessly,  that  he  had  left  town  for  a  few  days, 
and,  I  believed,  merely  upon  a  vague  excursion,  for  the  benefit 
of  the  country  air. 

"  You  reassure  us,"  said  Lady  Glanville  ;  "  we  have  been  quite 
alarmed  by  Seymour's  manner.  He  appeared  so  confused 
when  he  told  us  Reginald  had  left  town  that  I  really  thought 
some  accident  had  happened  to  him." 

I  sate  myself  by  Ellen,  who  appeared  wholly  occupied  in  the 
formation  of  a  purse.  While  I  was  whispering  into  her  ear 
words  which  brought  a  thousand  blushes  to  her  cheek,  Lady 
Glanville  interrupted  me  by  an  exclamation  of  "  Have  you  seen 
the  papers  to-day,  Mr.  Pelham  ?  "  and  on  my  reply  in  the  neg- 
ative, she  pointed  to  an  article  in  the  Morning  Herald,  which 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         375 

she  said  had  occupied  their  conjectures  all  the  morning — it 
ran  thus  : 

"  The  evening  before  last  a  person  of  rank  and  celebrity  was 

privately  carried  before  the  magistrate  at .  Since  then  he 

has  undergone  an  examination,  the  nature  of  which,  as  well 
as  the  name  of  the  individual,  is  as  yet  kept  a  profound 
secret." 

I  believe  that  I  have  so  firm  a  command  over  my  counte- 
nance that  I  should  not  change  tint  nor  muscle  to  hear  of  the 
greatest  calamity  that  could  happen  to  me.  I  did  not  there- 
fore betray  a  single  one  of  the  emotions  this  paragraph  ex- 
cited within  me,  but  appeared,  on  the  contrary,  as  much  at  a 
loss  as  Lady  Glanville,  and  wondered  and  guessed  with  her, 
till  she  remembered  my  present  situation  in  the  family,  and 
left  me  alone  with  Ellen. 

Why  should  the  tete-a-tete  of  lovers  be  so  uninteresting  to  the 
world,  when  there  is  scarcely  a  being  in  it  who  has  not  loved  ? 
The  expressions  of  every  other  feeling  come  home  to  us  all — 
the  expressions  of  love  weary  and  fatigue  us.  But  the  inter- 
view of  that  morning  was  far  from  resembling  those  delicious 
meetings  which  the  history  of  love  at  that  early  period  of  its 
existence  so  often  delineates.  I  could  not  give  myself  up  to 
happiness  which  a  moment  rifight  destroy  :  and  though  I  veiled 
my  anxiety  and  coldness  from  Ellen,  I  felt  it  as  a  crime  to  in- 
dulge even  the  appearance  of  transport  while  Glanville  lay 
alone  and  in  prison,  with  the  charge  of  murder  yet  uncontro- 
verted,  and  the  chances  of  its  doom  undiminished. 

The  clock  had  struck  four  before  I  left  Ellen,  and  without 
returning  to  my  hotel,  I  threw  myself  into  a  hackney-coach, 
and  drove  to  Charlotte  Street.  The  worthy  Job  received  me 
with  his  wonted  dignity  and  ease  ;  his  lodgings  consisted  of  a 
first  floor,  furnished  according  to  all  the  notions  of  Blooms- 
bury  elegance,  viz.,  new,  glaring  Brussels  carpeting  ;  convex 
mirrors,  with  massy  gilt  frames,  and  eagles  at  the  summit  ; 
rosewood  chairs,  with  chintz  cushions  ;  bright  grates,  with  a 
flower-pot,  cut  out  of  yellow  paper,  in  each  ;  in  short,  all  that 
especial  neatness  of  upholstering  paraphernalia  which  Vincent 
used,  not  inaptly,  to  designate  by  the  title  of  "  the  tea- 
chest  taste."  Jonson  seemed  not  a  little  proud  of  his  apart- 
ments— accordingly,  I  complimented  him  upon  their  ele- 
gance. 

"  Under  the  rose  be  it  spoken,"  said  he,  "  the  landlady,  who 
is  a  widow,  believes  me  to  be  an  officer  on  half-pay,  and  thinks 
I  wish  to  marry  her  ;  poor  woman  !  my  black  locks  and  green 


376  PELHAM  ; 

coat  have  a  witchery  that  surprises  even  me  :  who  would  be  a 
slovenly  thief,  when  there  are  such  advantages  in  being  a 
smart  one  ?" 

"  Right,  Mr.  Jonson  !  "  said  I ;  "  but  shall  I  own  to  you  that 
I  am  surprised  that  a  gentleman  of  your  talents  should  stoop 
to  the  lower  arts  of  the  profession.  I  always  imagined  that 
pocket-picking  was  a  part  of  your  business  left  only  to  the 
plebeian  purloiner  ;  now  I  know,  to  my  cost,  that  you  do  not 
disdain  that  manual  accomplishment." 

"  Your  honor  speaks  like  a  judge,"  answered  Job  ;  "  the  fact 
is,  that  I  should  despise  what  you  rightly  designate  '  the  lower 
arts  of  the  profession,'  if  I  did  not  value  myself  upon  giving 
them  a  charm,  and  investing  them  with  a  dignity,  never  be- 
stowed upon  them  before.  To  give  you  an  idea  of  the  su- 
perior dexterity  with  which  I  manage  my  sleight  of  hand, 
know,  that  four  times  I  have  been  in  the  shop  where  you  sa\r 
me  borrow  the  diamond  ring,  which  you  now  remark  upon  my 
little  finger  ;  and  four  times  have  I  brought  back  some  token 
of  my  visitations  ;  nay,  the  shopman  is  so  far  from  suspecting 
me,  that  he  has  twice  favored  me  with  the  piteous  tale  of  the 
very  losses  that  I  myself  brought  upon  him  ;  and  I  make  no 
doubt  that  I  shall  hear,  in  a  few  days,  the  whole  history  of  the 
departed  diamond,  now  in  my  keeping,  coupled  with  that  of 
your  honor's  appearance  and  custom  !  Allow  that  it  would  be 
a  pity  to  suffer  pride  to  stand  in  the  way  of  the  talents  with 
which  Providence  has  blest  me  ;  to  scorn  the  little  delicacies 
of  art,  which  I  execute  so  well,  would,  in  my  opinion,  be  as  ab- 
surd as  for  an  epic  poet  to  disdain  the  composition  of  a  perfect 
epigram,  or  a  consummate  musician  the  melody  of  a  faultless 
song." 

"Bravo!  Mr.  Job,"  said  I  ;  "a  truly  great  man,  yon  see, 
can  confer  honor  upon  trifles."  More  I  might  have  said,  but 
was  stopped  short  by  the  entrance  of  the  landlady,  who  was  a 
fine,  fair,  well-dressed,  comely  woman,  of  about  thirty-nine 
years  and  eleven  months  ;  or,  to  speak  less  precisely,  between 
thirty  and  forty.  She  came  to  announce  that  dinner  was  served 
below.  We  descended,  and  found  a  sumptuous  repast  of 
roast  beef  and  fish  ;  this  primary  course  was  succeeded  by 
that  great  dainty  with  common  people — a  duck  and  green 
peas. 

"Upon  my  word,  Mr.  Jonson,"  said  I,  "you  fare  like  a 
prince  ;  your  weekly  expenditure  must  be  pretty  considerable 
for  a  single  gentleman." 

"  I   don't  know,"   answered    Jonson,  with  an  air  of  lordly 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         377 

indifference  ;  "I  have  never  paid  my  good  hostess  any  coin 
but  compliments,  and  in  all  probability  never  shall." 

Was  there  ever  a  better  illustration  of  Moore's  admonition  : 

"  O,  ladies,  beware  of  a  gay  young  knight,"  etc. 

After  dinner  we  remounted  to  the  apartments  Job  emphatic- 
ally called  his  own ;  and  he  then  proceeded  to  initiate  me  in 
those  phrases  of  the  noble  language  of  "  Flash  "  which  might 
best  serve  my  necessities  on  the  approaching  occasion.  The  slang 
part  of  my  Cambridge  education  had  made  me  acquainted  with 
some  little  elementary  knowledge,  which  rendered  Jonson's  pre- 
cepts less  strange  and  abstruse.  In  this  lecture  "sweet  and 
holy,"  the  hours  passed  away  till  it  became  time  for  me  to 
dress.  Mr.  Jonson  then  took  me  into  the  penetralia  of  his  bed- 
room. I  stumbled  against  an  enormous  trunk.  On  hearing 
the  involuntary  anathema  which  this  accident  conjured  up  to 
my  lips,  Jonson  said  :  "  Ah,  sir  ! — do  oblige  me  by  trying  to 
move  that  box." 

I  did  so,  but  could  not  stir  it  an  inch. 

"Your  honor  never  saw  a  jewel  box  so  heavy  before,  I  think," 
said  Jonson,  with  a  smile. 

"A  jewel  box  !" 

"Yes,"  returned  Jonson,  "a  jewel  box,  foritisfullof  precious 
stones  !  When  I  go  away — not  a  little  in  my  good  landlady's 
books — I  shall  desire  her,  very  importantly,  to  take  the  greatest 
care  of  '  my  box.'  Egad  !  it  would  be  a  treasure  to  McAdam  ; 
he  might  pound  its  flinty  contents  into  a  street." 

With  these  words  Mr.  Jonson  unlocked  a  wardrobe  in  the 
room,  and  produced  a  full  suit  of  rusty  black. 

"  There  !  "  said  he,  with  an  air  of  satisfaction  :  "There  !  this 
will  be  your  first  step  to  the  pulpit." 

I  doffed  my  own  attire,  and  with  "  some  natural  sighs  "at  the 
deformity  of  my  approaching  metamorphosis,  I  slowly  indued 
myself  in  the  clerical  garments  ;  they  were  much  too  wide,  and 
a  little  too  short  for  me  ;  but  Jonson  turned  me  round,  as  if  I 
were  his  eldest  son,  breeched  for  the  first  time,  and  declared, 
with  an  emphatical  oath,  that  the  clothes  fitted  me  to  a  hair. 

My  host  next  opened  a  tin  dressing-box  of  large  dimensions, 
from  which  he  took  sundry  powders,  lotions,  and  paints. 
Nothing  but  my  extreme  friendship  for  Glanville  could  ever 
have  supported  me  through  the  operation  I  then  underwent. 
My  poor  complexion,  thought  I,  with  tears  in  my  eyes,  it  is 
ruined  forever  !  To  crown  all,  Jonson  robbed  me,  by  four  clips 
of  his  scissors,  of  the  luxuriant  locks  which,  from  the  pampered 


378  PELHAM  ; 

indulgence  so  long  accorded  to  them,  might  have  rebelled 
against  the  new  dynasty  which  Jonson  now  elected  to  the  crown. 
This  dynasty  consisted  of  a  shaggy,  but  admirably  made  wig,  of 
a  sandy  color.  When  I  was  thus  completely  attired  from  head 
to  foot,  Job  displayed  me  to  myself  before  a  full  length 
looking-glass. 

Had  I  gazed  at  the  reflection  forever  I  should  not  have  recog- 
nized either  my  form  or  visage.  I  thought  my  soul  had  under- 
gone a  real  transmigration,  and  not  carried  to  its  new  body  a 
particle  of  the  original  one.  What  appeared  the  most  singular 
was,  that  I  did  not  seem  even  to  myself  at  all  a  ridiculous  or 
outre  figure ;  so  admirably  had  the  skill  of  Mr.  Jonson  been 
employed.  I  overwhelmed  him  with  encomiums,  which  he  took 
au  pied  de  la  lettre.  Never,  indeed,  was  there  a  man  so  vain  of 
being  a  rogue. 

"  But,"  said  I,  "why  this  disguise?  Your  friends  will,  prob- 
ably, be  well  versed  enough  in  the  mysteries  of  metamorphosis 
to  see  even  through  your  arts  ;  and,  as  they  have  never  beheld 
me  before,  it  would  very  little  matter  if  I  went  in  proprid 
persond." 

"True,"  answered  Job,  "but  you  don't  reflect  that  without 
disguise  you  may  hereafter  be  recognized  ;  our  friends  walk  in 
Bond  Street  as  well  as  your  honor  ;  and,  in  that  case,  you  might 
be  shot  without  a  second,  as  the  saying  is." 

"  You  have  convinced  me,"  said  I,  "  and  now,  before  we 
start,  let  me  say  one  word  further  respecting  our  object.  I  tell 
you  fairly,  that  I  think  Dawson's  written  deposition  but  a  sec- 
ondary point :  and  for  this  reason,  should  it  not  be  supported  by 
any  circumstantial  or  local  evidence,  hereafter  to  be  ascertained, 
it  may  be  quite  insufficient  fully  to  acquit  Glanville  (in  spite 
of  all  appearances),  and  criminate  the  real  murderers.  If, 
therefore,  it  \>z  possible  to  carry  off  Dawson,  after  having  se- 
cured his  confession,  we  must.  I  think  it  right  to  insist  more 
particularly  on  this  point,  as  you  appeared  to  me  rather  averse 
to  it  this  morning." 

"  I  say  ditto  to  your  honor,"  returned  Job  ;  "and  you  may 
be  sure  that  I  shall  do  all  in  my  power  to  effect  your  object, 
not  only  from  that  love  of  virtue  which  is  implanted  in  my 
mind,  when  no  stronger  inducement  leads  me  astray,  but  from 
the  more  worldly  reminiscence  that  the  annuity  we  have  agreed 
upon  is  only  to  be  given  in  case  of  success — not  merely  for 
well-meaning  attempts.  To  say  that  I  have  no  objection  to  the 
release  of  Dawson  would  be  to  deceive  your  honor  ;  I  own  that 
I  have  ;  and  the  objection  is,  first,  my  fear  lest  he 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         379 

respecting  other  affairs  besides  the  murder  of  Sir  John  Tyr- 
rell ;  and,  secondly,  my  scruples  as  to  appearing  to  interfere 
with  his  escape.  Both  of  these  chances  expose  me  to  great 
danger  ;  however,  one  does  not  get  three  hundred  a  year  for 
washing  one's  hands,  and  I  must  balance  the  one  against  the 
other." 

"  You  are  a  sensible  man,  Mr.  Job,"  said  I,  "  and  I  am  sure 
you  will  richly  earn  and  long  enjoy  your  annuity." 

As  I  said  this  the  watchman  beneath  our  window  called 
"Past  eleven  !  "  and  Jonson,  starting  up,  hastily  changed  his 
own  gay  gear  for  a  more  simple  dress,  and  throwing  over  all  a 
Scotch  plaid,  gave  me  a  similar  one,  in  which  I  closely  wrapped 
myself.  We  descended  the  stairs  softly,  and  Jonson  let  us  out 
into  the  street  by  the  "  open  sesame "  of  a  key,  which  he 
retained  about  his  person. 

CHAPTER  LXXXII. 

"  Et  cantare  pares,  et  respondere  parati." — VIRGIL. 

As  we  walked  on  into  Tottenham  Court  Road,  where  we  ex- 
pected to  find  a  hackney  coach,  my  companion  earnestly  and 
strenuously  impressed  on  my  mind  the  necessity  of  implicitly 
obeying  any  instructions  or  hints  he  might  give  me  in  the 
course  of  our  adventure.  "  Remember,"  said  he  forcibly, 
"  that  the  least  deviation  from  them  will  not  only  defeat  our 
object  of  removing  Dawson,  but  even  expose  our  lives  to  the 
most  imminent  peril."  I  faithfully  promised  to  conform  to  the 
minutest  tittle  of  his  instructions. 

We  came  to  a  stand  of  coaches.  Jonson  selected  one,  and 
gave  the  coachman  an  order  ;  he  took  care  it  should  not  reach 
my  ears.  During  the  half-hour  we  passed  in  this  vehicle  Job 
examined  and  re-examined  me  in  my  "canting  catechism,"  as 
he  termed  it.  He  expressed  himself  much  pleased  with  the 
quickness  of  my  parts,  and  honored  me  with  an  assurance  that 
in  less  than  three  months  he  would  engage  to  make  me  as  com- 
plete a  ruffler  as  ever  nailed  a  swell. 

To  this  gratifying  compliment  I  made  the  best  return  in  my 
power. 

"You  must  not  suppose,"  said  Jonson,  some  minutes  after- 
wards, "from  our  use  of  this  language,  that  our  club  consists 
of  the  lower  order  of  thieves — quite  the  contrary  ;  we  are  a 
knot  of  gentlemen  adventurers  who  wear  the  best  clothes,  ride 
the  best  hacks,  frequent  the  best  gaming-houses,  as.  well  a§  the 


380  PELHAM  ; 

genieelest  haunts,  and  sometimes  keep  the  first  company — in 
London.  We  are  limited  in  number  :  we  have  nothing  in  com- 
mon with  ordinary  prigs,  and  should  my  own  little  private 
amusements  (as  you  appropriately  term  them)  be  known  in  the 
set,  I  should  have  a  very  fair  chance  of  being  expelled  for 
ungentlemanlike  practices.  We  rarely  condescend  to  speak 
"flash"  to  each  other  in  our  ordinary  meetings,  but  we  find  it 
necessary  for  many  shifts  to  which  fortune  sometimes  drives 
us.  The  house  you  are  going  this  night  to  visit  is  a  sort  of 
colony  we  have  established  for  whatever  persons  amongst  us 
are  in  danger  of  blood-money.  *  There  they  sometimes  lie 
concealed  for  weeks  together,  and  are  at  last  shipped  off  for 
the  Continent,  or  enter  the  world  under  a  new  alias.  To  this 
refuge  of  the  distressed  we  also  send  any  of  the  mess  who,  like 
Dawson,  are  troubled  with  qualms  of  conscience,  which  are 
likely  to  endanger  the  commonwealth  :  there  they  remain,  as 
in  a  hospital,  till  death,  or  a  cure  ;  in  short,  we  put  the  house, 
like  its  inmates,  to  any  purposes  likely  to  frustrate  our  enemies 
and  serve  ourselves.  Old  Brimstone  Bess,  to  whom  I  shall 
introduce  you,  is,  as  I  before  said,  the  guardian  of  the  place  ; 
and  the  language  that  respectable  lady  chiefly  indulges  in  is 
the  one  into  which  you  have  just  acquired  so  good  an  insight. 
Partly  in  compliment  to  her,  and  partly  from  inclination,  the 
dialect  adopted  in  her  house  is  almost  entirely  "flash!"  and 
you,  therefore,  perceive  the  necessity  of  appearing  not  utterly 
ignorant  of  a  tongue  which  is  not  only  the  language  of  the 
country,  but  one  with  which  no  true  boy,  however  high  in  his 
profession,  is  ever  unacquainted." 

By  the  time  Jonson  had  finished  this  speech,  the  coach 
stopped.  I  looked  eagerly  out  of  the  window — Jonson  observed 
the  motion  :  "We  have  not  got  half-way  yet,  your  honor,"  said 
he.  We  left  the  coach,  which  Jonson  requested  me  to  pay, 
and  walked  on. 

"  Tell  me  frankly,  sir,"  said  Job,  "  do  you  know  where  you 
are  ?  " 

"Not  in  the  least,"  replied  I,  looking  wistfully  up  along, 
dull,  ill-lighted  street. 

Job  rolled  his  sinister  eye  towards  me  with  a  searching  look, 
and  then  turning  abruptly  to  the  right,  penetrated  into  a  sort 
of  covered  lane,  or  court,  which  terminated  in  an  alley,  that 
brought  us  suddenly  to  a  stand  of  three  coaches  ;  one  of  these 
Job  hailed  ;  we  entered  it,  a  secret  direction  was  given,  and  we 
drove  furiously  on,  faster  than  I  should  think  the  crazy  body 

*  Rewards  for  the  apprehension  of  thieves,  etc. 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         381 

of  hackney  chariot  ever  drove  before.  I  observed  that  we  had 
now  entered  a  part  of  the  town  which  was  singularly  strange 
to  me  ;  the  houses  were  old,  and  for  the  most  part  of  the 
meanest  description ;  we  appeared  to  me  to  be  threading  a 
labyrinth  of  alleys  ;  once  I  imagined  that  I  caught,  through  a 
sudden  opening,  a  glimpse  of  the  river,  but  we  passed  so  rapidly 
that  my  eye  might  have  deceived  me.  At  length  we  stopped  : 
the  coachman  was  again  dismissed,  and  I  again  walked  on- 
wards, under  the  guidance  and  almost  at  the  mercy  of  my 
honest  companion. 

Jonson  did  not  address  me  ;  he  was  silent  and  absorbed,  and 
I  had  therefore  full  leisure  to  consider  my  present  situation. 
Though  (thanks  to  my  physical  constitution)  I  am  as  callous  to 
fear  as  most  men,  a  few  chilling  apprehensions  certainly  flitted 
across  my  mind  when  I  looked  round  at  the  dim  and  dreary 
sheds — houses  they  were  not — which  were  on  either  side  of 
our  path  ;  only,  here  and  there,  a  single  lamp  shed  a  sickly 
light  upon  the  dismal  and  intersecting  lanes  (though  lane  is  too 
lofty  a  word),  through  which  our  footsteps  woke  a  solitary 
sound.  Sometimes  this  feeble  light  was  altogether  withheld, 
and  I  could  scarcely  catch  even  the  outline  of  my  companion's 
muscular  frame.  However,  he  strode  on  through  the  darkness 
with  the  mechanical  rapidity  of  one  to  whom  every  stone  is 
familiar.  I  listened  eagerly  for  the  sound  of  the  watchman's 
voice — in  vain  ;  that  note  was  never  heard  in  those  desolate  re- 
cesses. My  ear  drank  in  nothing  but  the  sound  of  our  own 
footsteps,  or  the  occasional  burst  of  obscene  and  unholy  mer- 
riment from  some  half-closed  hovel,  where  Infamy  and  Vice 
were  holding  revels.  Now  and  then  a  wretched  thing,  in  the 
vilest  extreme  of  want,  and  loathsomeness,  and  rags,  loitered 
by  the  unfrequent  lamps,  and  interrupted  our  progress  with 
solicitations  which  made  my  blood  run  cold.  By  degrees  even 
these  tokens  of  life  ceased — the  last  lamp  was  entirely  shut  from 
view — we  were  in  utter  darkness. 

"  We  are  near  our  journey's  end  now,"  whispered  Jon- 
son. 

At  these  words  a  thousand  unwelcome  reflections  forced 
themselves  involuntarily  on  my  mind  ;  I  was  about  to  plunge 
into  the  most  secret  retreat  of  men  whom  long  habits  of  villany 
and  desperate  abandonment  had  hardened  into  a  nature  which 
had  scarcely  a  sympathy  with  my  own  ;  unarmed  and  defence- 
less, I  was  about  to  penetrate  a  concealment  upon  which  their 
lives  perhaps  depended  ;  what  could  I  anticipate  from  their 
vengeance  but  the  sure  hand  and  the  deadly  knife,  which  their 


382  PELHAM  ; 

self-preservation  would  more  than  justify  to  such  lawless  rea- 
soners  ?  And  who  was  my  companion?  One  who  literally 
gloried  in  the  perfection  ef  his  nefarious  practices  ;  and  who, 
if  he  had  stopped  short  of  the  worst  enormities,  seemed 
neither  to  disown  the  principle  upon  which  they  were  com- 
mitted, nor  to  balance  for  a  moment  between  his  interest  and 
his  conscience. 

Nor  did  he  attempt  to  conceal  from  me  the  danger  to  which 
I  was  exposed  ;  much  as  his  daring  habits  of  life,  and  the 
good  fortune  which  had  attended  him,  must  have  hardened  his 
nerves,  even  he  seemed  fully  sensible  of  the  peril  he  incurred — 
a  peril  certainly  considerably  less  than  that  which  attended  tuy 
temerity.  Bitterly  did  I  repent,  as  these  reflections  rapidly 
passed  my  mind,  my  negligence  in  not  providing  myself  with  a 
single  weapon  in  case  of  need  ;  the  worst  pang  of  death  is  the 
falling  without  a  struggle. 

However,  it  was  no  moment  for  the  indulgence  of  fear,  it 
was  rather  one  of  those  eventful  periods  which  so  rarely  occur 
in  the  monotony  of  common  life,  when  our  minds  are  sounded 
to  their  utmost  depths  :  and  energies,  of  which  we  dreamt  not 
when  at  rest  in  their  secret  retreats,  arise  like  spirits  at  the 
summons  of  the  wizard,  and  bring  to  the  invoking  mind  an 
unlooked  for  and  preternatural  aid. 

There  was  something  too  in  the  disposition  of  my  guide 
which  gave  me  a  confidence  in  him  not  warranted  by  the  occu- 
pations of  his  life  ;  an  easy  and  frank  boldness,  an  ingenious 
vanity  of  abilities,  skilfully,  though  dishonestly,  exerted,  which 
had  nothing  of  the  meanness  and  mystery  of  an  ordinary  vil- 
lain, and  which  being  equally  prominent  with  the  rascality  they 
adorned,  prevented  the  attention  from  dwelling  upon  the 
darker  shades  of  his  character.  Besides,  I  had  so  closely  en- 
twined his  interest  with  my  own,  that  I  felt  there  could  be  no 
possible  ground  either  for  suspecting  him  of  any  deceit  towards 
me,  or  of  omitting  any  art  or  exertion  which  could  conduce 
to  our  mutual  safety,  or  our  common  end. 

Forcing  myself  to  dwell  solely  upon  the  more  encouraging 
side  of  the  enterprise  I  had  undertaken,  I  continued  to  move 
on  with  my  worthy  comrade,  silent  and  in  darkness,  for  some 
minutes  longer  ;  Jonson  then  halted. 

"  Are  you  quite  prepared,  sir  ?  "  said  he,  in  a  whisper  :  "If 
your  heart  fails,  in  Heaven's  name  let  us  turn  back  ;  the  least 
evident  terror  will  be  as  much  as  your  life  is  worth." 

My  thoughts  were  upon  Reginald  and  Ellen,  as  I  replied  : 

"  You  have  told  and  convinced  me  that  I  may  trust  in  you, 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         383 

and  I  have  no  fears  ;  my  present  object  is  one  as  strong  to  me 
as  life." 

"  I  would  we  had  a  glim"  rejoined  Job  musingly  ;  "  I 
should  like  to  see  your  face  ;  but  will  you  give  me  your  hand, 
sir  ?  " 

I  did,  and  Jonson  held  it  in  his  own  for  more  than  a  minute, 

"  'Fore  Gad,  sir,"  said  he  at  last,  "  I  would  you  were  one  of 
us.  You  would  live  a  brave  man,  and  die  a  game  one.  Your 
pulse  is  like  iron  ;  and  your  hand  does  not  sway — no — not  so 
much  as.  to  wave  a  dove's  feather;  it  would  be  a  burning 
shame  if  harm  came  to  so  stout  a  heart."  Job  moved  on  a 
few  steps.  "Now,  sir,"  he  whispered,  "remember  your  flash  ; 
do  exactly  as  I  may  have  occasion  to  tell  you  ;  and  be  sure  to 
sit  away  from  the  light,  should  we  be  in  company." 

With  these  words  he  stopped.  By  the  touch  (for  it  was  too 
dark  to  see),  I  felt  that  he  was  bending  down,  apparently  in  a 
listening  attitude  ;  presently  he  tapped  five  times  at  what  I 
supposed  was  the  door,  though  I  afterwards  discovered  it  was 
the  shutter  to  a  window  ;  upon  this,  a  faint  light  broke  through 
the  crevices  of  the  boards,  and  a  low  voice  uttered  some  sound 
which  my  ear  did  not  catch.  Job  replied  in  the  same  key,  and 
in  words  which  were  perfectly  unintelligible  to  me  ;  the  light 
disappeared  :  Job  moved  round,  as  if  turning  a  corner.  I 
heard  the  heavy  bolts  and  bars  of  a  door  slowly  withdraw  ; 
and  in  a  few  moments  a  harsh  voice  said,  in  the  thieves' 
dialect : 

"  Ruffling  Job,  my  prince  of  prigs,  is  that  you  ?  Are  you 
come  to  the  ken  alone,  or  do  you  carry  double  ?" 

"  Ah,  Bess,  my  covess,  strike  me  blind  if  my  sees  don't  tout 
your  bingo  muns  in  spite  of  the  darkmans.  Egad,  you  carry 
a  bene  blink  aloft.  Come  to  the  ken  alone — no  !  my  blowen  ; 
did  not  I  tell  you  I  should  bring  a  pater  cove,  to  chop  up  the 
whiners  for  Dawson  ?  "  * 

".Stubble  it,  you  ben,  you  deserve  to  cly  the  jerk  for  your 
patter  ;  come  in,  and  be  d — d  to  you."  f 

Upon  this  invitation  Jonson,  seizing  me  by  the  arm,  pushed 
me  into  the  house,  and  followed.  "  Go  for  a  glim,  Bess,  to 
light  in  the  black  'un  with  proper  respect.  I'll  close  the  gig 
of  the  crib." 

At  this  order,  delivered   in  an   authoritative  tone,  the  old 

*  Etrike  me  blind  if  my  eyes  don't  see  your  brandy  face  in  spite  of  the  night.  Come  to 
the  house  alone— no  !  my  woman  ;  did  not  I  tell  you  I  should  bring  a  parson — to  say 
j>rayers  for  Dawson  ? 

t  Hold  your  tongue,  fool,  you  deserve  to  be  whipped  for  your  chatter. 


384  PELHAM  ; 

woman,  mumbling  "  strange  oaths  "  to  herself,  moved  away; 
when  she  was  out  of  hearing,  Job  whispered : 

"  Mark,  I  shall  leave  the  bolts  undrawn  ;  the  door  opens 
with  a  latch,  which  you  press  thus — do  not  forget  the  spring  ; 
it  is  easy,  but  peculiar  ;  should  you  be  forced  to  run  for  it, 
you  will  also  remember,  above  all,  when  you  are  out  of  the 
door,  to  turn  to  the  right,  and  go  straight  forwards." 

The  old  woman  now  reappeared  with  a  light,  and  Jonson 
ceased,  and  moved  hastily  towards  her:  I  followed.  The  old 
woman  asked  whether  the  door  had  been  carefully  closed,  and 
Jonson,  with  an  oath  at  her  doubts  of  such  a  matter,  answered 
in  the  affirmative. 

We  proceeded  onwards  through  a  long  and  very  narrow  pas- 
sage, till  Bess  opened  a  small  door  to  the  right,  and  introduced 
us  into  a  large  room,  which,  to  my  great  dismay,  I  found  al- 
ready occupied  by  four  men,  who  were  sitting,  half  immersed 
in  smoke,  by  an  oak  table,  with  a  capacious  bowl  of  hot  liquor 
before  them.  At  the  background  of  this  room,  which  resem- 
bled the  kitchen  of  a  public-house,  was  an  enormous  screen  of 
antique  fashion  ;  a  low  fire  burnt  sullenly  in  the  grate,  and  be- 
side it  was  one  of  those  high-backed  chairs,  seen  frequently  in 
old  houses  and  old  pictures.  A  clock  stood  in  one  corner,  and 
in  the  opposite  nook  was  a  flight  of  narrow  stairs,  which  led 
downwards,  probably  to  a  cellar.  On  a  row  of  shelves  were 
various  bottles  of  the  different  liquors  generally  in  request  among 
the  "flash  "  gentry,  together  with  an  old-fashioned  fiddle,  two 
bridles,  and  some  strange-looking  tools,  probably  of  more  use 
to  true  boys  than  to  honest  men. 

Brimstone  Bess  was  a  woman  about  the  middle  size,  but  with 
bones  and  sinews  which  would  not  have  disgraced  a  prize- 
fighter ;  a  cap,  that  might  have  been  cleaner,  was  rather  thrown 
than  put  on  the  back  of  her  head,  developing,  to  full  advantage, 
the  few  scanty  locks  of  grizzled  ebon  which  adorned  her  coun- 
tenance. Her  eyes,  large,  black,  and  prominent,  sparkled  with 
a  fire  half-vivacious,  half-vixen.  The  nasal  feature  was  broad 
and  fungous,  and,  as  well  as  the  whole  of  her  capacious  physi- 
ognomy, blushed  with  the  deepest  scarlet :  it  was  evident  to  see 
that  many  a  full  bottle  of  "  British  compounds  "  had  contrib- 
uted to  the  feeding  of  that  burning  and  phosphoric  illumination, 
which  was,  indeed,  "  the  outward  and  visible  sign  of  an  inward 
and  spiritual  grace." 

The  expression  of  the  countenance  was  not  wholly  bad. 
Amidst  the  deep  traces  of  searing  vice  and  unrestrained  pas- 
sion— amidst  all  that  was  bold  and  unfeminine,  and  fierce,  and 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         385 

crafty — there  was  a  latent  look  of  coarse  good-humor,  a  twin- 
kle of  the  eye  that  bespoke  a  tendency  to  mirth  and  drollery, 
and  an  upward  curve  of  the  lip  that  showed,  however  the  human 
creature  might  be  debased,  it  still  cherished  its  grand  charac- 
teristic— the  propensity  to  laughter. 

The  garb  of  this  dame  Leonarda  was  by  no  means  of  that 
humble  nature  which  one  might  have  supposed.  A  gown  of 
crimson  silk,  flounced  and  furbelowed  to  the  knees,  was  taste- 
fully relieved  by  a  bright  yellow  shawl  ;  and  a  pair  of  heavy 
pendants  glittered  in  her  ears,  which  were  of  the  size  proper  to 
receive  "  the  big  words  "  they  were  in  the  habit  of  hearing. 
Probably  this  finery  had  its  origin  in  the  policy  of  her  guests, 
who  had  seen  enough  of  life  to  know  that  age,  which  tames  all 
other  passions,  never  tames  the  passion  of  dress  in  a  woman's 
heart. 

No  sooner  did  the  four  revellers  set  their  eyes  upon  me  than 
they  all  rose. 

"  Zounds,  Bess  !  "  cried  the  tallest  of  them,  "  what  cull's  this  ? 
Is  this  a  bowsing  ken  for  every  cove  to  shove  his  trunk  in  ?" 

"What  ho,  my  kiddy!"  cried  Job,  "don't  be  glimflashy  ; 
why  you'd  cry  beef  on  a  blater  ;*  the  cove  is  a  bob  cull,  and  a 
pal  of  my  own  ;  and  moreover,  is  as  pretty  a  Tyburn  blossom 
as  ever  was  brought  up  to  ride  a  horse  foaled  by  an  acorn." 

Upon  this  commendatory  introduction  I  was  forthwith  sur- 
rounded, and  one  of  the  four  proposed  that  I  should  be  imme- 
diately "elected." 

This  motion,  which  was  probably  no  gratifying  ceremony, 
Job  negatived  with  a  dictatorial  air,  and  reminded  his  comrades 
that  however  they  might  find  it  convenient  to  lower  themselves 
occasionally,  yet  that  they  were  gentlemen  sharpers,  and  not 
vulgar  cracksmen  and  clyfakers,  and  that,  therefore,  they  ought 
to  welcome  me  with  the  good-breeding  appropriate  to  their 
station. 

Upon  this  hint,  which  was  received  with  mingled  laughter 
and  deference  (for  Job  seemed  to  be  a  man  of  might  among 
these  Philistines),  the  tallest  of  the  set,  who  bore  the  eupho- 
nious appellation  of  Spider-shanks,  politely  asked  me  if  1  would 
"  blow  a  cloud  with  him  !  "  and  upon  my  assent  (for  I  thought 
such  an  occupation  would  be  the  best  excuse  for  silence),  he 
presented  me  with  a  pipe  of  tobacco,  to  which  dame  Brimstone 
applied  a  light,  and  I  soon  lent  my  best  endeavors  to  darken 
still  farther  the  atmosphere  around  us. 

*  Don't  be  angry  !    Why  you'd  cry  beef  on  a  calf — the  man  is  a  good  fellow,  and  a  coav 
rade  of  my  own,  etc. 


386  PELHAM  J 

Mr.  Job  Jonson  then  began  artfully  to  turn  the  conversation 
away  from  me  to  the  elder  confederates  of  his  crew  ;  these  were 
all  spoken  of  under  certain  singular  appellations  which  might 
well  baffle  impertinent  curiosity.  The  name  of  one  was  "  the 
Gimlet,"  another  "  Crack  Crib,"  a  third,  "  the  Magician,"  a 
fourth,  "  Cherry-colored  Jowl."  The  tallest  of  the  present 
company  was  called  (as  I  before  said)  "Spider-shanks,"  and 
the  shortest,  "Fib  Fakescrew";  Job  himself  was  honored  by 
the  venerabile  nomen  of  "  Guinea  Pig."  At  last  Job  explained 
the  cause  of  my  appearance  ;  viz.,  his  wish  to  pacify  Dawson's 
conscience  by  dressing  up  one  of  the  pals,  whom  the  sinner 
could  not  recognize,  as  an  "  autem  bawler,"  and  so  obtaining 
him  the  benefit  of  the  clergy  without  endangering  the  gang  by 
his  confession.  The  detail  was  received  with  great  good-humor, 
and  Job,  watching  his  opportunity,  soon  after  rose,  and,  turn- 
ing to  me,  said  : 

"  Toddle,  my  bob  cull — we  must  track  up  the  dancers  and 
tout  the  sinner."* 

I  wanted  no  other  hint  to  leave  my  present  situation. 

"  The  ruffian  cly  thee,  Guinea  Pig,  for  stashing  the  lush/'t 
said  Spider-shanks,  helping  himself  "out  of  the  bowl,  which  was 
nearly  empty. 

"  Stash  the  lush  !  "  \  cried  Mrs.  Brimstone,  "  ay,  and  toddle 
off  to  Ruggins.  Why,  you  would  not  be  boozing  till  lightman's 
in  a  square  crib  like  mine,  as  if  you  were  in  a  flash 
panny  ?" 

"That's  bang- up,  mort ! "  cried  Fib.  "A  square  crib,  in- 
deed !  Ay,  square  as  Mr.  Newman's  courtyard — ding-boys  on 
three  sides,  and  the  crap  on  the  fourth  !  "  § 

This  characteristic  witticism  was  received  with  great  applause; 
and  Jonson  taking  a  candlestick  from  the  fair  fingers  of  the 
exasperated  Mrs.  Brimstone,  the  hand  thus  conveniently  re- 
leased immediately  transferred  itself  to  Fib's  cheeks,  with  so 
hearty  a  concussion  that  it  almost  brought  the  rash  jester  to 
the  ground.  Jonson  and  I  lost  not  a  moment  in  taking  ad- 
vantage of  the  confusion  this  gentle  remonstrance  appeared 
to  occasion  ;  but  instantly  left  the  room  and  closed  the  door. 

*  Mov«,  my  good  fellow,  we  must  go  upstairs,  and  look  at  the  sinner. 
t  The  devil  lake  thee  for  stopping  the  urink. 

t  Stop  the  drink,  ay,  and  be  off  to  bed.  You  would  not  be  drinking  till  day — In  a* 
hone*t  house  like  mine,  as  if  you  were  in  a  disreputable  place. 

§  That's  capital.  A  square  crib  (honest  house)  !  Ay,  square  as  Newgate  coach-yard-> 
rogues  on  three  sides,  and  the  gallows  on  the  fourth. 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         387 

CHAPTER  LXXXIII. 

"  'Tis  true  that  we  are  in  great  danger  ; 
The  greater,  therefore,  should  our  courage  be." — SHAKSPEARE. 

WE  proceeded  a  short  way  when  we  were  stopped  by  a  door  ; 
this  Job  opened,  and  a  narrow  staircase,  lighted  from  above 
by  a  dim  lamp,  was  before  us.  We  ascended,  and  found  our- 
selves in  a  sort  of  gallery  :  here  hung  another  lamp,  beneath 
which  Job  opened  a  closet. 

"This  is  the  place  where  Bess  generally  leaves  the  keys," 
said  he  ;  "  we  shall  find  them  here,  I  hope." 

So  saying  Master  Job  entered,  leaving  me  in  the  passage  ; 
but  soon  returned  with  a  disappointed  air. 

"  The  old  harridan  has  left  them  below,"  said  he  ;  "I  must 
go  down  for  them  ;  your  honor  will  wait  here  till  I  return." 

Suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  honest  Job  immediately  de- 
scended, leaving  me  alone  with  my  own  reflections.  Just  op- 
posite to  the  closet  was  the  door  of  some  apartment  ;  I  leant 
accidentally  against  it  ;  it  was  only  ajar,  and  gave  way  ;  the  or- 
dinary consequence  in  such  accidents  is  a  certain  precipitation 
from  the  centre  of  gravity.  I  am  not  exempt  from  the  general 
lot,  and  accordingly  entered  the  room  in  a  manner  entirely 
contrary  to  that  which  my  natural  inclination  would  have 
prompted  me  to  adopt.  My  ear  was  accosted  by  a  faint  voice, 
which  proceeded  from  a  bed  at  the  opposite  corner  :  it  asked, 
in  the  thieves'  dialect,  and  in  the  feeble  accents  of  "bodily 
weakness,  who  was  there  ?  I  did  not  judge  it  necessary  to 
make  any  reply,  but  was  withdrawing  as  gently  as  possible 
when  my  eye  rested  upon  a  table  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  upon 
which,  among  two  or  three  miscellaneous  articles,  were  depos- 
ited a  brace  of  pistols,  and  one  of  those  admirable  swords, 
made  according  to  the  modern  military  regulation,  for  the 
united  purpose  of  cut  and  thrust.  The  light  which  enabled 
me  to  discover  the  contents  of  the  room  proceeded  from  a 
rushlight  placed  in  the  grate  ;  this  general  symptom  of  a  vale- 
tudinarian, together  with  some  other  little  odd  matters  (com- 
bined with  the  weak  voice  of  the  speaker),  impressed  me  with 
the  idea  of  having  intruded  into  the  chamber  of  some  sick 
member  of  the  crew.  Emboldened  by  this  notion,  and  by 
perceiving  that  the  curtains  were  drawn  closely  around  the 
bed,  so  that  the  inmate  could  have  optical  discernment  of 
nothing  that  occurred  without,  I  could  not  resist  taking  two 
soft  steps  to  the  table,  and  quietly  removing  a  weapon,  whose 


388  PELHAM  ; 

bright  face  seemed  to  invite  me  as  a  long-known  and  long-tried 
friend. 

This  was  not,  however,  done  in  so  noiseless  a  manner  but 
what  the  voice  again  addressed  me,  in  a  somewhat  louder  key, 
by  the  appellation  of  "  Brimstone  Bess,"  asking,  with  sundry 
oaths,  "What  was  the  matter  ?"  and  requesting  something  to 
drink.  I  need  scarcely  say  that,  as  before,  I  made  no  reply, 
but  crept  out  of  the  room  as  gently  as  possible,  blessing  my 
good  fortune  for  having  thrown  into  my  way  a  weapon  with 
the  use  of  which,  above  all  others,  I  was  acquainted.  Scarcely 
had  I  regained  the  passage  before  Jonson  reappeared  with  the 
keys  ;  I  showed  him  my  treasure  (for  indeed  it  was  of  no  size 
to  conceal). 

"  Are  you  mad,  sir  ?  "  said  he,  "  or  do  you  think  that  the 
best  way  to  avoid  suspicion  is  to  walk  about  with  a  drawn 
sword  in  your  hand  ?  I  would  not  have  Bess  see  you  for  the 
best  diamond  I  ever  borrowed."  With  these  words  Job  took 
the  sword  from  my  reluctant  hand. 

"  Where  did  you  get  it  ? "  said  he. 

I  explained  in  a  whisper,  and  Job,  reopening  the  door  I  had 
so  unceremoniously  entered,  laid  the  weapon  softly  on  a  chair  that 
stood  within  reach.  The  sick  man,  whose  senses  were  of  course 
rendered  doubly  acute  by  illness,  once  more  demanded  in  a 
fretful  tone,  who  was  there  !  And  Job  replied,  in  the  flash 
language,  that  Bess  had  sent  him  up  to  look  for  her  keys, 
which  she  imagined  she  had  left  there.  The  invalid  rejoined 
by  a  request  to  Jonson  to  reach  him  a  draught,  and  we  had  to 
undergo  a  farther  delay  until  his  petition  was  complied  with  ; 
we  then  proceeded  up  the  passage  till  we  came  to  another 
flight  of  steps,  which  led  to  a  door  ;  Job  opened  it,  and  we  en- 
tered a  room  of  no  common  dimensions. 

"This,"  said  he,  "is  Bess  Brimstone's  sleeping  apartment; 
whoever  goes  into  the  passage  that  leads  not  only  to  Dawson's 
room,  but  to  the  several  other  chambers  occupied  by  such  of 
the  gang  as  require  particular  care,  must  first  pass  through  this 
room.  You  see  that  bell  by  the  bedside — I  assure  you  it  is  no 
ordinary  tintinnabulum  ;  it  communicates  with  every  sleeping 
apartment  in  the  house,  and  is  only  rung  in  cases  of  great 
alarm,  when  every  boy  must  look  well  to  himself  ;  there  are 
two  more  of  this  description,  one  in  the  room  which  we  have  just 
left,  another  in  the  one  occupied  by  Spider-shanks,  who  is  our 
watch-dog,  and  keeps  his  kennel  below.  Those  steps  in  the 
common  room,  which  seem  to  lead  to  a  cellar,  conduct  to  his 
den.  As  we  shall  have  to  come  back  through  this  room,  you 


OR,    ADVENTURES    OF    A    GENTLEMAN.  389 

see  the  difficulty  of  smuggling  Dawson — and  if  the  old  dame 
rung  the  alarm,  the  whole  hive  would  be  out  in  a  moment." 

After  this  speech  Job  led  me  from  the  room  by  a  door  at  the 
opposite  end,  which  showed  us  a  passage,  similar  in  extent  and 
fashion  to  the  one  we  had  left  below  ;  at  the  very  extremity  of 
this  was  the  entrance  to  an  apartment  at  which  Jonson  stopped. 

"  Here,"  said  he,  taking  from  his  pocket  a  small  paper  book 
and  an  ink-horn  ;  "  Here,  your  honor,  take  these, — you  may 
want  to  note  the  heads  of  Dawson's  confession  ;  we  are  now  at 
his  door."  Job  then  applied  one  of  the  keys  of  a  tolerably 
sized  bunch  to  the  door,  and  the  next  moment  we  were  in 
Dawson's  apartment. 

The  room,  which,  though  low  and  narrow,  was  of  considera- 
ble length,  was  in  utter  darkness,  and  the  dim  and  flickering 
light  which  Jonson  held  only  struggled  with,  rather  than  pen- 
etrated, the  thick  gloom.  About  the  centre  of  the  room  stood 
the  bed,  and  sitting  upright  on  it,  with  a  wan  and  hollow  coun- 
tenance, bent  eagerly  towards  us,  was  a  meagre,  attenuated  fig- 
ure. My  recollection  of  Dawson,  whom,  it  will  be  remem- 
bered, I  had  only  seen  once  before,  was  extremely  faint,  but  it 
had  impressed  me  with  the  idea  of  a  middle-sized  and  rather 
athletic  mun,  with  a  fair  and  florid  complexion  :  the  creature 
I  now  saw  was  totally  the  reverse  of  this  idea.  His  cheeks 
were  yellow  and  drawn  in  ;  his  hand,  which  was  raised  in  the 
act  of  holding  aside  the  curtains,  was  like  the  talons  of  a  fam- 
ished vulture,  so  thin  was  it,  so  long,  so  withered  in  its  hue 
and  texture. 

No  sooner  did  the  advancing  light  allow  him  to  see  us  dis- 
tinctly than  he  half  sprung  from  the  bed,  and  cried,  in  that 
peculiar  tone  of  joy  which  seems  to  throw  off  from  the  breast 
a  suffocating  weight  of  previous  terror  and  suspense  :  "Thank 
God,  thank  God  !  it  is  you  at  last  ;  and  you  have  brought  the 
clergyman — God  bless  you,  Jonson,  you  are  a  true  friend  tome." 

"Cheer  up,  Dawson,"  said  Job  ;  "I  have  smuggled  in  this 
worthy  gentleman,  who,  I  have  no  doubt,  will  be  of  great  corn- 
fort  to  you — but  you  must  be  open  with  him,  and  tell  all." 

"  That  I  will — that  I  will,"  cried  Dawson,  with  a  wild  and 
vindictive  expression  of  countenance;  "if  it  be  only  to  hang 
him.  Here,  Jonson,  give  me  your  hand,  bring  the  light 
nearer — I  say — he,  the  devil — the  fiend — has  been  here  to-day 
and  threatened  to  murder  me  ;  and  I  have  listened,  and 
listened,  all  night,  and  thought  I  heard  his  step  along  the 
passage,  and  up  the  stairs,  and  at  the  door  ;  but  it  was  nothing, 
Job,  nothing — and  you  are  come  at  last,  good,  kind,  worthy 


390  PELHAM  ; 

Job.  Oh,  'tis  so  horrible  to  be  left  in  the  dark,  and  not  sleep— 
and  in  this  large,  large  room,  which  looks  like  eternity  at  night — 
and  one  does  fancy  such  sights,  Job — such  horrid,  horrid 
sights.  Feel  my  wristband,  Jonson,  and  here  at  my  back,  you 
would  think  they  had  been  pouring  water  over  me,  but  it's 
only  the  cold  sweat.  Oh  !  'tis  a  fearful  thing  to  have  a  bad 
conscience,  Job  ;  but  you  won't  leave  me  till  daylight,  now, 
that's  a  dear,  good  Job  !  " 

"  For  shame,  Dawson,"  said  Jonson  ;  "  pluck  up,  and  be  a 
man  ;  you  are  like  a  baby  frightened  by  its  nurse.  Here's  the 
clergyman  come  to  heal  your  poor  wounded  conscience  ;  will 
you  hear  him  now  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Dawson  ;  "  yes  !  But  go  out  of  the  room — I 
can't  tell  all  if  you're  here  ;  go,  Job,  go  ! — but  you're  not  angry 
with  me — I  don't  mean  to  offend  you." 

"Angry  !  "  said  Job  ;  "  Lord  help  the  poor  fellow  !  no,  to 
be  sure  not.  I'll  stay  outside  the  door  till  you've  done  with 
the  clergyman — but  make  haste,  for  the  night's  almost  over, 
and  it's  as  much  as  the  parson's  life  is  worth  to  stay  here 
after  daybreak." 

"I  will  make  haste,"  said  the  guilty  man  tremulously; 
"  but  Job,  where  are  you  going — what  are  you  doing  ?  Leave 
the  light !  here,  Job,  by  the  bedside." 

Job  did  as  he  was  desired,  and  quitted  the  room,  leaving 
the  door  not  so  firmly  shut  but  that  he  might  hear,  if  the 
penitent  spoke  aloud,  every  particular  of  his  confession. 

I  seated  myself  on  the  side  of  the  bed,  and  taking  the 
skeleton  hand  of  the  unhappy  man,  spoke  to  him  in  the  most 
consolatory  and  comforting  words  I  could  summon  to  my 
assistance.  He  seemed  greatly  soothed  by  my  efforts,  and  at 
last  implored  me  to  let  him  join  me  in  prayer.  I  knelt  down, 
and  my  lips  readily  found  words  for  that  language,  which, 
whatever  be  the  formula  of  our  faith,  seems,  in  all  emotions 
which  come  home  to  our  hearts,  the  most  natural  method  of 
expressing  them.  It  is  here,  by  the  bed  of  sickness,  or 
remorse,  that  the  ministers  of  God  have  their  real  power  !  It 
is  here  that  their  office  is  indeed  a  divine  and  unearthly 
mission  ;  and  that  in  breathing  balm  and  comfort,  in  healing 
the  broken  heart,  in  raising  the  crushed  and  degraded  spirit — 
they  are  the  voice  and  oracle  of  the  FATHER,  who  made  us 
in  benevolence,  and  will  judge  us  in  mercy  !  I  rose,  and  after 
a  short  pause,  Dawson,  who  expressed  himself  impatient  for 
the  comfort  of  confession,  thus  began  : 

"  I  have  no  time,  sir,  to  speak  of  the  earlier  part  of  my  life, 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         39! 

I  passed  it  upon  the  race-course,  and  at  the  gaming-table — all 
that  was,  I  know,  very  wrong  and  wicked  ;  but  I  was  a  wild, 
idle  boy,  and  eager  for  anything  like  enterprise  or  mischief. 
Well,  sir,  it  is  now  more  than  three  years  ago  since  I  first  met 
with  one  Tom  Thor-nton  ;  it  was  at  a  boxing  match.  Tom 
was  chosen  chairman  at  a  sort  of  club  of  the  farmers  and  yeo- 
men ;  and  being  a  lively,  amusing  fellow,  and  accustomed  to 
the  company  of  gentlemen,  was  a  great  favorite  with  all  of  us. 
He  was  very  civil  to  me,  and  I  was  quite  pleased  with  his 
notice.  I  did  not,  however,  see  much  of  him  then,  nor  for 
more  than  two  years  afterwards  ;  but  some  months  ago  we  met 
again.  I  was  in  very  poor  circumstances  ;  so  was  he  ;  and  this 
made  us  closer  friends  than  we  might  otherwise  have  been. 
He  lived  a  great  deal  at  the  gambling-houses,  and  fancied  he 
had  discovered  a  certain  method  of  winning  *  at  hazard.  So, 
whenever  he  could  not  find  a  gentleman  whom  he  could  cheat 
with  false  dice,  tricks  at  cards,  etc.,  he  would  go  into  any  hell 
to  try  his  infallible  game.  I  did  not,  however,  perceive  that 
he  made  a  good  living  by  it ;  and  though  sometimes,  either 
by  that  method  or  some  other,  he  had  large  sums  of  money  in 
his  possession,  yet  they  were  spent  as  soon  as  acquired.  The 
fact  was,  that  he  was  not  a  man  that  could  ever  grow  rich  ;  he 
was  extremely  extravagant  in  all  things — loved  women  and 
drinking,  and  was  always  striving  to  get  into  the  society  of 
people  above  him.  In  order  to  do  this,  he  affected  great  care- 
lessness of  money  ;  and  if,  at  a  race  or  a  cock-fight,  any  real 
gentlemen  would  go  home  with  him,  he  would  insist  upon 
treating  them  to  the  best  of  everything. 

"  Thus,  sir,  he  was  always  poor,  and  at  his  wit's  end  for 
means  to  supply  his  extravagance.  He  introduced  me  to  three 
or  four  gentlemen,  as  he  called  them,  but  whom  I  have  since 
found  to  be  markers,  sharpers,  and  blacklegs  ;  and  this  set  soon 
dissipated  the  little  honesty  my  own  habits  of  life  had  left  me. 
They  never  spoke  of  things  by  their  right  names  ;  and,  there- 
fore, those  things  never  seemed  so  bad  as  they  really  were — to 
swindle  a  gentleman  did  not  sound  a  crime  when  it  was  called 
'  macing  a  swell,' — nor  transportation  a  punishment,  when  it 
was  termed,  with  a  laugh,  '  lagging  a  cove.'  Thus,  insensibly, 
my  ideas  of  right  and  wrong,  always  obscure,  became  perfectly 
confused  :  and  the  habit  of  treating  all  crimes  as  subjects  of  jest 
in  familiar  conversation  soon  made  me  regard  them  as  matters 
of  very  trifling  importance. 

"  Well,  sir,  at  Newmarket  races,  this  Spring  meeting,  Thorn- 

*  A  very  coirunori  delusion,  both  among  sharpers  and  their  prey. 


392  PELHAM  ; 

ton  and  I  were  on  the  lookout.  He  had  come  down  to  stay, 
during  the  races,  at  a  house  I  had  just  inherited  from  my 
father,  but  which  was  rather  an  expense  to  me  than  an  advan- 
tage ;  especially  as  my  wife,  who  was  an  inn-keeper's  daughter, 
was  very  careless  and  extravagant.  It  so  happened  that  we 
were  both  taken  in  by  a  jockey,  whom  we  had  bribed  very 
largely,  and  were  losers  to  a  very  considerable  amount.  Among 
other  people,  I  lost  to  a  Sir  John  Tyrrell.  I  expressed  my 
vexation  to  Thornton,  who  told  me  not  to  mind  it,  but  to  tell 
Sir  John  that  I  would  pay  him  if  he  came  to  the  town  ;  and 
that  he  was  quite  certain  we  could  win  enough,  by  his  certain 
game  at  hazard,  to  pay  off  my  debt.  He  was  so  very  urgent 
that  I  allowed  myself  to  be  persuaded  ;  though  Thornton  has 
since  told  me  that  his  only  motive  was  to  prevent  Sir  John's 
going  to  the  Marquess  of  Chester's  (where  he  was  invited)  with 
my  lord's  party  ;  and  so  to  have  an  opportunity  of  accomplish- 
ing the  crime  he  then  meditated. 

"  Accordingly,  as  Thornton  desired,  I  asked  Sir  John  Tyr- 
rell to  come  with  me  to  Newmarket.  He  did  so.  I  left  him, 
joined  Thornton,  and  went  to  the  gambling-house.  Here  we 
were  engaged  in  Thornton's  sure  game  when  Sir  John  entered. 
I  went  up  and  apologized  for  not  paying,  and  said  I  would  pay 
him  in  three  months.  However,  Sir  John  was  very  angry,  and 
treated  me  with  such  rudeness  that  the  whole  table  remarked 
it.  When  he  was  gone,  I  told  Thornton  how  hurt  and  indig- 
nant I  was  at  Sir  John's  treatment.  He  incensed  me  still 
more — exaggerated  Sir  John's  conduct — said  I  had  suffered 
the  grossest  insult ;  and  at  last  put  me  into  such  a  passion  that  I 
said  that,  if  I  was  a  gentleman,  I  would  fight  Sir  John  Tyrrell 
across  the  table. 

"  When  Thornton  saw  I  was  so  moved,  he  took  me  out  of 
the  room,  and  carried  me  to  an  inn.  Here  he  ordered  dinner, 
and  several  bottles  of  wine.  I  never  could  bear  much  drink  : 
he  knew  this,  and  artfully  plied  me  with  wine  till  I  scarcely 
knew  what  I  did  or  said.  He  then  talked  much  of  our  desti- 
tute situation — affected  to  put  himself  out  of  the  question — 
said  he  was  a  single  man,  and  could  easily  make  shift  upon  a 
potato,  but  that  I  was  encumbered  with  a  wife  and  child,  whom 
I  could  not  suffer  to  starve.  He  then  said  that  Sir  John  Tyr- 
rell had  publicly  disgraced  me  ;  that  I  should  be  blown  upon 
the  course ;  that  no  gentleman  would  bet  with  me  again,  and  a 
great  deal  more  of  the  same  sort.  Seeing  what  an  effect  he 
had  produced  upon  me,  he  then  told  me  that  he  had  seen  Sir 
John  receive  a  large  sum  of  money,  which  would  more  than 


6R,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         393 

pay  our  debts,  and  set  us  up  like  gentlemen,  and,  at  last,  he 
proposed  to  me  to  rob  him.  Intoxicated  as  1  was,  I  was  some- 
what startled  at  this  proposition.  However,  the  slang  terms  in 
which  Thornton  disguised  the  greatness  and  danger  of  the 
offence,  very  much  diminished  both  in  my  eyes — so  at  length  I 
consented. 

"  We  went  to  Sir  John's  inn,  and  learnt  that  he  had  just  set 
out :  accordingly  we  mounted  our  horses  and  rode  after  him. 
The  night  had  already  closed  in.  After  we  had  got  some  dis- 
tance from  the  main  road,  into  the  lane,  which  led  both  to  my 
house  and  to  Chester  Park — for  the  former  was  on  the  direct 
way  to  my  lord's — we  passed  a  man  on  horseback.  I  only  ob- 
served that  he  was  wrapped  in  a  cloak,  but  Thornton  said,  di- 
rectly we  had  passed  him:  'I  know  that  man  well;  he  has 
been  following  Tyrrell  all  day, — and  though  he  attempts  to 
screen  himself,  I  have  penetrated  his  disguise — he  is  Tyrrell's 
mortal  enemy.' 

' '  Should  the  worst  come  to  the  worst,'  added  Thornton 
(words  which  I  did  not  at  that  moment  understand),  '  we  can 
make  him  bear  the  blame.' 

"  When  we  had  got  some  way  further  we  came  up  to  Tyrrell 
and  a  gentleman,  whom,  to  our  great  dismay,  we  found  that 
Sir  John  had  joined — the  gentleman's  horse  had  met  with  an 
accident,  and  Thornton  dismounted  to  offer  his  assistance. 
He  assured  the  gentleman,  who  proved  afterwards  to  be  a  Mr. 
Pelham,  that  the  horse  was  quite  lame,  and  that  he  would 
scarcely  be  able  to  get  it  home  ;  and  he  then  proposed  to  Sir 
John  to  accompany  us,  and  said  that  we  would  put  him  in  the 
right  road  ;  this  offer  Sir  John  rejected  very  haughtily,  and  we 
rode  on. 

'"It's  all  up  with  us,'  said  I ;  'since  he  has  joined  another 
person.' 

' '  Not  at  all,'  replied  Thornton  ;  'for  I  managed  to  give  the 
horse  a  sly  poke  with  my  knife  ;  and  if  I  know  anything  of  Sir 
John  Tyrrell,  he  is  much  too  impatient  a  spark  to  crawl  along, 
a  snail's  pace,  with  any  companion,  especially  with  this  heavy 
shower  coming  on.' 

" '  But,'  said  I,  for  I  now  began  to  recover  from  my  intoxica- 
tion, and  to  be  sensible  of  the  nature  of  our  undertaking,  '  the 
moon  is  up,  and  unless  this  shower  conceals  it,  Sir  John  will 
recognize  us ;  so  you  see,  even  if  he  leave  the  gentleman,  it 
will  be  no  use,  and  we  had  much  better  make  haste  home  and 
go  to  bed.' 

"  Upon  this,  Thornton  cursed  me  for  a  faint-hearted  fellow, 


394 

and  said  that  the  cloud  would  effectually  hide  the  moon — or, 
if  not,  he  added  :  'I  know  how  to  silence  a  prating  tongue.' 
At  these  words  I  was  greatly  alarmed,  and  said,  that  if  he 
meditated  murder  as  well  as  robbery,  I  would  have  nothing 
further  to  do  with  it.  Thornton  laughed,  and  told  me  not  to 
be  a  fool.  While  we  were  thus  debating  a  shower  came  on  ; 
we  rode  hastily  to  a  large  tree,  by  the  side  of  a  pond — which, 
though  bare  and  withered,  was  the  nearest  shelter  the  country 
afforded,  and  was  only  a  very  short  distance  from  my  house. 
I  wished  to  go  home,  but  Thornton  would  not  let  me,  and  as  I 
was  always  in  the  habit  of  yielding,  I  remained  with  him,  though 
very  reluctantly,  under  the  tree. 

"Presently  we  heard  the  trampling  of  a  horse. 

"'It  is  he — it  is  he,'  cried  Thornton  with  a  savage  tone  of 
exultation,  '  and  alone  !  Be  ready  !  We  must  make  a  rush — 
I  will  be  the  one  to  bid  him  to  deliver — you  hold  your  tongue.' 

"The  clouds  and  rain  had  so  overcast  the  night,  that, 
although  it  was  not  perfectly  dark,  it  was  sufficiently  obscure  to 
screen  our  countenances.  Just  as  Tyrrell  approached  Thorn- 
ton dashed  forward,  and  cried,  in  a  feigned  voice  :  'Stand,  on 
your  peril ! '  I  followed,  and  we  were  now  both  by  Sir  John's 
side. 

"  He  attempted  to  push  by  us,  but  Thornton  seized  him  by 
the  arm  ;  there  was  a  stout  struggle,  in  which,  as  yet,  I  had  no 
share  ;  at  last  Tyrrell  got  loose  from  Thornton,  and  I  seized 
him  ;  he  set  spurs  to  his  horse,  which  was  a  very  spirited  and 
strong  animal ;  it  reared  upwards,  and  very  nearly  brought  me 
and  my  horse  to  the  ground  :  at  that  instant  Thornton  struck 
the  unfortunate  man  a  violent  blow  across  the  head  with  the 
butt-end  of  his  heavy  whip — Sir  John's  hat  had  fallen  before 
in  the  struggle,  and  the  blow  was  so  stunning  that  it  felled  him 
upon  the  spot.  Thornton  dismounted,  and  made  me  do  the 
same  :  'There  is  no  time  to  lose,'  said  he  ;  'let  us  drag  him 
from  the  roadside  and  rifle  him.'  We  accordingly  carried  him 
(he  was  still  senseless)  to  the  side  of  the  pond  before  men- 
tioned. While  we  were  searching  for  the  money  Thornton 
spoke  of,  the  storm  ceased,  and  the  moon  broke  out ;  we  were 
detained  some  moments  by  the  accident  of  Tyrrell's  having 
transferred  his  pocket-book  from  the  pocket  Thornton  had 
seen  him  put  it  in  on  the  race-ground  to  an  inner  one. 

"We  had  just  discovered  and  seized  the  pocket-book  when 
Sir  John  awoke  from  his  swoon,  and  his  eyes  opened  upon 
Thornton,  who  was  still  bending  over  him,  and  looking  at  the 
pontents  of  the  book  to  see  that  all  was  right ;  the  moonlight 


Oft,  ADVENTURES   OF    A    GENTLEMAN.  395 

left  Tyrrell  in  no  doubt  as  to  our  persons  ;  and  struggling  hard 
to  get  up,  he  cried,  '  I  know  you  !  I  know  you  !  You  shall 
hang  for  this.'  No  sooner  had  he  uttered  this  imprudence 
than  it  was  all  over  with  him.  '  We  will  see  that,  Sir  John/ 
said  Thornton,  setting  his  knee  upon  Tyrrell's  chest,  and 
nailing  him  down.  While  thus  employed  he  told  me  to  feel  in 
his  coat-pocket  for  a  cnse-knife. 

"'For  God's  sake,'  cried  Tyrrell,  with  a  tone  of  agonizing 
terror  which  haunts  me  still,  'spare  my  life  !' 

"  '  It  is  too  late,'  said  Thornton  deliberately,  and  taking  the 
knife  from  my  hands,  he  plunged  it  into  Sir  John's  side,  and 
as  the  blade  was  too  short  to  reach  the  vitals,  Thornton  drew 
it  backwards  and  forwards  to  widen  the  wound.  Tyrrell  was 
a  strong  man,  and  still  continued  to  struggle  and  call  out  for 
mercy.  Thornton  drew  out  the  knife — Tyrrell  seized  it  by  the 
blade,  and  his  fingers  were  cut  through  before  Thornton  could 
snatch  it  from  his  grasp  ;  the  wretched  gentleman  then  saw  all 
hope  was  over :  he  uttered  one  loud,  sharp  cry  of  despair. 
Thornton  put  one  hand  to  his  mouth,  and  with  the  other 
gashed  his  throat  from  ear  to  ear. 

" '  You  have  done  for  him  and  for  us  now,'  said  I,  as  Thorn- 
ton slowly  rose  from  the  body.  'No,'  replied  he,  'look,  he 
still  moves ' ;  and  sure  enough  he  did,  but  it  was  in  the  last 
agony.  However,  Thornton,  to  make  all  sure,  plunged  the 
knife  again  into  his  body  :  the  blade  came  in  contact  with  a 
bone,  and  snapped  in  two :  so  great  was  the  violence  of  the 
blow,  that,  instead  of  remaining  in  the  flesh,  the  broken  piece 
fell  upon  the  ground  among  the  long  fern  and  grass. 

"  While  we  were  employed  in  searching  for  it,  Thornton, 
whose  ears  were  much  sharper  than  mine,  caught  the  sound  of 
ahorse.  'Mount!  mount!'  he  cried,  'and  let  us  be  off!' 
We  sprung  upon  our  horses,  and  rode  away  as  fast  as  we  could. 
I  wished  to  go  home,  as  it  was  so  near  at  hand  ;  but  Thornton 
insisted  on  making  to  an  old  shed,  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
across  the  fields  :  thither,  therefore,  we  went." 

"Stop,"  said  I  :  "  what  did  Thornton  do  with  the  remaining 
part  of  the  case-knife?  Did  he  throw  it  away,  or  carry 
it  with  him  ? 

"He  took  it  with  him,"  answered  Dawson,  "for  his  name 
was  engraved  on  a  silver  plate  on  the  handle  ;  and  he  was 
therefore  afraid  of  throwing  it  into  the  pond,  as  I  advised,  lest 
at  any  time  it  should  be  discovered.  Close  by  the  shed  here 
is  a  plantation  of  young  firs  of  some  extent  :  Thornton  and  I 
entered,  and  he  dug  a  hole  with  the  broken  blade  of  the 


396  PELHAM  ; 

knife,  and  buried  it,  covering  up  the  hole  again  with  the 
earth." 

"  Describe  the  place/0  caid  I.  Dawson  paused,  and  seemed 
to  recollect.  I  was  on  the  very  tenterhooks  of  suspense,  for 
I  saw  with  one  glance  all  the  importance:  of  his  reply. 

After  some  moments,  he  shook  his  head  :  "  I  cannot  describe 
the  place,"  said  he,  *  for  the  wood  is  so  thick ;  yet  I  know  the 
exact  spot  so  well,  that,  were  I  in  any  part  of  the  plantation, 
I  could  point  it  out  immediately." 

I  told  him  to  pause  again,  and  recollect  himself ;  and  at 
all  events,  to  try  to  indicate  the  place.  However,  his  account 
was  so  confused  and  perplexed,  that  I  was  forced  to  give  up 
the  point  in  despair,  and  he  continued. 

"  After  we  had  done  this,  Thornton  told  me  to  hold  the 
horses,  and  said  he  would  go  alone,  to  spy  whether  we  might 
return  :  accordingly  he  did  so,  and  brought  back  word,  in 
about  half  an  hour,  that  he  had  crept  cautiously  along  till  in 
sight  of  the  place,  and  then,  throwing  himself  down  on  his  face 
by  the  ridge  of  a  bank,  had  observed  a  man  (who  he  was  sure 
was  the  person  with  a  cloak  we  had  passed,  and  who,  he  said, 
was  Sir  Reginald  Glanville)  mount  his  horse  on  the  very  spot 
of  the  murder,  and  ride  off,  while  another  person  (Mr.  Pelham) 
appeared,  and  also  discovered  the  fatal  place. 

"  'There  is  no  doubt  now,'  said  he,  'that  we  shall  have  the 
hue-and-cry  upon  us.  However,  if  you  are  staunch  and  stout- 
hearted, no  possible  danger  can  come  to  us  ;  for  you  may 
leave  me  alone  to  throw  the  whole  guilt  upon  Sir  Reginald 
Glanville.'  " 

"  We  then  mounted,  and  rode  home.  We  stole  upstairs 
by  the  back  way.  Thornton's  linen  and  hands  were  stained 
with  blood.  The  former  he  took  off,  locked  up  carefully, 
and  burnt  the  first  opportunity  :  the  latter  he  washed  ;  and, 
that  the  water  might  not  lead  to  detection,  drank  it.  We 
then  appeared  as  if  nothing  had  occurred,  and  learnt  that 
Mr.  Pelham  had  been  to  the  house  ;  but  as,  very  fortunately, 
our  out-buildings  had  been  lately  robbed  by  some  idle  people, 
my  wife  and  servants  had  refused  to  admit  him.  I  was  thrown 
into  great  agitation,  and  was  extremely  frightened.  However, 
as  Mr.  Pelham  had  left  a  message  that  we  were  to  go  to  the 
pond,  Thornton  insisted  upon  our  repairing  there  to  avoid 
suspicion." 

Dawson  then  proceeded  to  say,  that,  on  their  return,  as  he 
was  still  exceedingly  nervous,  Thornton  insisted  on  his  going 
to  bed.  When  our  party  from  Lord  Chester's  came  to  the 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         397 

house,  Thornton  went  into  Dawson's  room,  and  made  him 
swallow  a  large  tumbler  of  brandy  ;  *  this  intoxicated  him  so 
as  to  make  him  less  sensible  to  his  dangerous  situation.  After- 
wards, when  the  picture  was  found,  which  circumstance  Thorn- 
ton communicated  to  him,  along  with  that  of  the  threatening 
letter  sent  by  Glanville  to  the  deceased,  which  was  discovered 
in  Tyrrcll's  pocket-book,  Dawson  recovered  courage,  and  jus- 
tice being  entirely  thrown  on  a  wrong  scent,  he  managed  to 
pass  his  examination  without  suspicion.  He  then  went  to  town 
with  Thornton,  and  constantly  attended  "  the  club  "  to  which 
Jonson  had  before  introduced  him  ;  at  first,  among  his  new 
comrades,  and  while  the  novel  flush  of  the  money  he  had  so 
fccrfully  acquired  lasted,  he  partially  succeeded  in  stifling  his 
remorse.  But  the  success  of  crime  is  too  contrary  to  nature 
to  continue  lon^  ;  his  poor  wife,  whom,  in  spite  of  her  extrava- 
gant, and  his  dissolute  habits,  he  seemed  really  to  love,  fell  ill, 
and  died  ;  on  her  deathbed  she  revealed  the  suspicions  she  had 
formed  of  his  crime,  and  said  that  those  suspicions  had  preyed 
upon,  and  finally  destroyed,  her  health  :  this  awoke  him  from 
the  guilty  torpor  of  his  conscience.  His  share  of  the  money, 
too,  the  greater  part  of  which  Thornton  had  bullied  out  of  him, 
was  gone.  He  fell,  as  Job  had  said,  into  despondency  and 
gloom,  and  often  spoke  to  Thornton  so  forcibly  of  his  remorse, 
and  so  earnestly  of  his  gnawing  and  restless  desire  to  appease 
his  mind  by  surrendering  himself  to  justice,  that  the  fears  of 
that  villain  grew,  at  length,  so  thoroughly  alarmed  as  to  pro- 
cure his  removal  to  his  present  abode. 

It  was  here  that  his  real  punishment  commenced  ;  closely 
confined  to  his  apartment  at  the  remotest  corner  of  the  house, 
his  solitude  was  never  broken  but  by  the  short  and  hurried 
visits  of  his  female  gaoler,  and  (worse  even  than  loneliness)  the 
occasional  invasions  of  Thornton.  There  appeared  to  be  in 
that  abandoned  wretch  what,  for  the  honor  of  human  nature, 
is  but  rarely  found,  viz.,  a  love  of  sin,  not  for  its  objects,  but 
itself.  With  a  malignity  doubly  fiendish  from  its  inutility,  he 
forbade  Dawson  the  only  indulgence  he  craved — a  light  during 
the  dark  hours  ;  and  not  only  insulted  him  for  his  cowardice, 
but  even  added  to  his  terrors  by  threats  of  effectually  silencing 
them. 

These  fears  had  so  wildly  worked  upon  the  man's  mind  that 
prison  itself  appeared  to  him  an  elysium  to  the  hell  he  endured: 
and  when  his  confession  was  ended,  and  I  said  :  "  If  you  can 
be  freed  from  this  place,  would  you  repeat  before  a  magistrate 

*  A  common  practice  with  thieves  who  fear  the  weak  nerves  of  their  accomplices. 


398  PELHAM  ; 

all  that  you  have  now  told  me  ?  "  he  started  up  in  delight  at  the 
very  thought.  In  truth,  besides  his  remorse,  and  that  inward 
and  impelling  voice  which,  in  all  the  annals  of  murder,  seems  to 
urge  the  criminal  onwards  to  the  last  expiation  of  his  guilt — be- 
sides these,  there  mingled  in  his  mind  a  sentiment  of  bitter,  yet 
cowardly,  vengeance  against  his  inhuman  accomplice  ;  and 
perhaps  he  found  consolation  for  his  own  fate  in  the  hope  of 
wreaking  upon  Thornton's  head  somewhat  of  the  tortures  that 
ruffian  had  inflicted  upon  him. 

I  had  taken  down  in  my  book  the  heads  of  the  confession, 
and  I  now  hastened  to  Jonson,  who,  waiting  without  the  door, 
had  (as  I  had  anticipated)  heard  all. 

"  You  see,"  said  I,  "  that,  however  satisfactory  this  recital 
has  been,  it  contains  no  secondary  or  innate  proofs  to  confirm 
it  ;  the  only  evidence  with  which  it  could  furnish  us  would  be 
the  remnant  of  the  broken  knife,  engraved  with  Thornton's 
name  ;  but  you  have  heard  from  Dawson's  account  how  impos- 
sible it  would  be  in  an  extensive  wood  for  any  one  to  discover 
the  spot  but  himself.  You  will  agree  with  me,  therefore,  that 
we  must  not  leave  this  house  without  Dawson. 

Job  changed  color  slightly. 

"  I  see  as  clearly  as  you  do,"  said  he,  "that  it  will  be  neces- 
sary for  my  annuity,  and  your  friend's  full  acquittal,  to  pro- 
cure Dawson's  personal  evidence,  but  it  is  late  now ;  the  men 
may  be  still  drinking  below  ;  Bess  may  be  still  awake  and  stir- 
ring ;  even  if  she  sleeps,  how  could  we -pass  her  room  without 
disturbing  her  ?  I  own  that  I  do  not  see  a  chance  of  effecting 
his  escape  to-night,  without  incurring  the  most  probable  peril 
of  having  our  throats  cut.  Leave  it,  therefore,  to  me  to  procure 
his  release  as  soon  as  possible — probably  to-morrow,  and  let  us 
now  quietly  retire,  content  with  what  we  have  yet  got." 

Hitherto  I  had  implicitly  obeyed  Job  :  it  was  now  my  turn 
to  command.  "Look  you,"  said  I,  calmly  but  sternly,  "  I  have 
come  into  this  house  under  your  guidance  solely  to  procure  the 
evidence  of  that  man  ;  the  evidence  he  has,  as  yet,  given  may 
not  be  worth  a  straw  ;  and,  since  I  have  ventured  among  the 
knives  of  your  associates,  it  shall  be  for  some  purpose.  I 
tell  you  fairly  that,  whether  you  befriend  or  betray  me,  I  will 
either  leave  'these  walls  with  Dawson,  or  remain  in  them  a 
corpse." 

"You  are  a  bold  blade,  sir,"  said  Jonson,  who  seemed  rather 
to  respect  than  resent  the  determination  of  my  tone,  "  and  we 
will  see  what  can  be  done  ;  wait  here,  your  honor,  while  I  go 
down  to  see  if  the  boys  are  gone  to  bed,  and  the  coast  is  clear." 


OR,  ADVENTURES   OF    A    GENTLEMAN.  399 

Job  descended,  and  I  re-entered  Dawson's  room.  When  I 
told  him  that  we  were  resolved,  if  possible,  to  effect  his  escape, 
nothing  could  exceed  his  transport  and  gratitude  ;  this  was, 
indeed,  expressed  in  so  mean  and  servile  a  manner,  mixed 
with  so  many  petty  threats  of  vengeance  against  Thornton, 
that  I  could  scarcely  conceal  my  disgust. 

Jonson  returned,  and  beckoned  me  out  of  the  room. 

"They  are  all  in  bed,  sir,"  said  he;  "Bess  as  well  as  the 
rest ;  indeed,  the  old  girl  has  lushed  so  well  at  the  bingo,  that 
she  sleeps  as  if  her  next  morrow  was  the  day  of  judgment.  I 
have,  also,  seen  that  the  street-door  is  still  unbarred,  so  that, 
upon  the  whole,  we  have,  perhaps,  as  good  a  chance  to-night 
as  we  may  ever  have  again.  All  my  fear  is  about  that  cowardly 
lubber.  I  have  left  both  Bess's  doors  wide  open,  so  we  have 
nothing  to  do  but  to  creep  through  ;  as  for  me,  I  am  an  old 
file,  and  could  steal  my  way  through  a  sick  man's  room,  like  a 
sunbeam  through  a  keyhole." 

"Well,"  said  I,  in  the  same  strain,  "I  am  no  elephant,  and 
my  dancing  master  used  to  tell  me  I  might  tread  on  a  butter- 
fly's wing  without  brushing  off  a  tint  (PoorCoulon!  he  little 
thought  of  the  use  his  lessons  would  be  to  me  hereafter  !),  so 
let  us  be  quick,  Master  Job." 

"  Stop,"  said  Jonson  ;  "  I  have  yet  a  ceremony  to  perform 
with  our  caged  bird.  I  must  put  a  fresh  gag  on  his  mouth  ; 
for  though,  if  he  escapes,  I  must  leave  England,  perhaps  for 
ever,  for  fear  of  the  jolly  boys,  and,  therefore,  care  not  what 
he  blabs  about  me  ;  yet  there  are  a  few  fine  fellows  amongst 
the  club  whom  I  would  not  have  hurt  for  the  Indies  ;  so  I  shall 
make  Master  Dawson  take  our  last  oath—\\\z  Devil  himself 
would  not  break  that,  I  think  !  Your  honor  will  stay  out- 
side the  door,  for  we  can  have  no  witness  while  it  is  admin- 
istered." 

Job  then  entered  ;  I  stood  without  ;  in  a  few  minutes  I  heard 
Dawson's  voice  in  the  accents  of  supplication.  Soon  after  Job 
returned.  "The  craven  dog  won't  take  the  oath,"  said  he, 
"  and  may  my  right  hand  rot  above  ground  before  it  shall  turn 
key  for  him  unless  he  does."  But  when  Dawson  saw  that  Job 
had  left  the  room,  and  withdrawn  the  light,  the  conscience- 
stricken  coward  came  to  the  door,  and  implored  Job  to  return. 
"Will  you  swear,  then?"  said  Jonson;  "I  will,  I  will,"  was 
the  answer. 

Job  then  re-entered — minutes  passed  away — Job  reap- 
peared, and  Dawson  was  dressed,  and  clinging  hold  of  him  : 
"  All's  right !  "  said  he  to  me  with  a  satisfied  air. 


406 

The  oath  had  been  taken.  What  it  was  I  know  not,  but  it 
was  never  broken.  * 

Dawson  and  Job  went  first,  I  followed  ;  we  passed  the  pas- 
sage, and  came  to  the  chamber  of  the  sleeping  Mrs.  Brimstone. 
Job  bent  eagerly  forward  to  listen  before  we  entered  ;  he  took 
hold  of  Dawson's  arm,  and  beckoning  me  to  follow,  stole,  with 
a  step  that  the  blind  mole  would  not  have  heard,  across  the 
room.  Carefully  did  the  practised  thief  veil  the  candle  he 
carried  with  his  hand  as  he  now  began  to  pass  by  the  bed.  I 
saw  that  Dawson  trembled  like  a  leaf,  and  the  palpitation  of 
his  limbs  made  his  step  audible  and  heavy.  Just  as  they  had 
half-way  passed  the  bed,  I  turned  my  look  on  Brimstone  Bess, 
and  observed  with  a  shuddering  thrill  her  eyes  slowly  open, 
and  fix  upon  the  forms  of  my  companions.  Dawson's  gaze 
had  been  bent  in  the  same  direction,  and  when  he  met  the  full, 
glassy  stare  of  the  beldame's  eyes,  he  uttered  a  faint  scream. 
This  completed  our  danger  ;  had  it  not  been  for  that  exclama- 
tion, Bess  might,  in  the  uncertain  vision  of  drowsiness,  have 
passed  over  the  third  person,  and  fancied  it  was  only  myself 
and  Jonson,  in  our  way  from  Dawson's  apartment ;  but  no 
sooner  had  her  ear  caught  the  sound  than  she  started  up,  and 
sat  erect  on  her  bed,  gazing  at  us  in  mingled  wrath  and  aston- 
ishment. 

That  was  a  fearful  moment — we  stood  riveted  to  the  spot  ! 
"  Oh,  my  kiddies,"  cried  Bess,  at  last  finding  speech,  "  you  are 
in  Queer  Street,  I  trow  !  Plant  your  stumps,  Master  Guinea 
Pig  ;  you  are  going  to  stall  off  the  Daw's  baby  in  prime  twig, 
eh  ?  But  Bess  stags  you,  my  cove  !  Bess  stags  you."  f 

Jonson  looked  irresolute  for  one  instant  ;  but  the  next  he 
had  decided.  "  Run,  run,"  cried  he,  "  for  your  lives  ";  and 
he  and  Dawson  (to  whom  fear  did  indeed  lend  wings)  were 
out  of  the  room  in  an  instant.  I  lost  no  time  in  following 
their  example  ;  but  the  vigilant  and  incensed  hag  was  too 
quick  for  me  ;  she  pulled  violently  the  bell,  on  which  she  had 
already  placed  her  hand  ;  the  alarm  rang  like  an  echo  in  a 
cavern  ;  below — around — far — near — from  wall  to  wall — from 
chamber  to  chamber,  the  sound  seemed  multiplied  and  re- 
peated !  And  in  the  same  breathing  point  of  time  she 
sprang  from  her  bed  and  seized  me,  just  as  I  had  reached  the 
door. 

"  On,  on,  on,"  cried  Jonson's  voice  to  Dawson,  as  they  had 

*  Those  conversant  with  the  annals  of  Newgate  well  know  how  religiously  the  oaths  of 
these  fearful  Freemasonries  are  kept. 

t  Halt,  Master  Guinea  Pig,  you  are  going  to  steal  Dawson  away,  eh?  But  Bess  sees 
you,  my  man,  Bess  sees  you  ! 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         40! 

already  gained  the  passage,  and  left  the  whole  room,  and  the 
staircase  beyond,  in  utter  darkness. 

With  a  firm,  muscular,  nervous  gripe,  which  almost  showed  a 
masculine  strength,  the  hag  clung  to  my  throat  and  breast ; 
behind,  among  some  of  the  numerous  rooms  in  the  passage  we 
had  left,  I  heard  sounds  which  told  too  plainly  how  rapidly 
the  alarm  had  spread. 

A  door  opened — steps  approached — my  fate  seemed  fixed  : 
but  despair  gave  me  energy  :  it  was  no  time  for  the  ceremonials 
due  to  the  beau  sexe.  I  dashed  Bess  to  the  ground,  tore  my- 
self from  her  relaxing  grasp,  and  fled  down  the  steps  with  all 
the  precipitation  the  darkness  would  allow.  I  gained  the  pas- 
sage, at  the  far  end  of  which  hung  the  lamp,  now  weak  and 
waning  in  its  socket,  which,  it  will  be  remembered,  burnt  close 
by  the  sick  man's  chamber  that  I  had  so  unintentionally 
entered.  A  thought  flashed  upon  my  mind,  and  lent  me  new 
nerves  and  fresh  speed  ;  I  flew  along  the  passage,  guided  by 
the  dying  light.  The  staircase  I  had  left  shook  with  the  foot- 
steps of  my  pursuers.  I  was  at  the  door  of  the  sick  thief — I 
burst  it  open — seized  the  sword  as  it  lay  within  reach  on  the 
chair,  where  Jonson  had  placed  it,  and  feeling,  at  the  touch  of 
the  familiar  weapon,  as  if  the  might  of  ten  men  had  been  trans- 
ferred to  my  single  arm,  I  bounded  down  the  stairs  before  me, 
passed  the  door  at  the  bottom,  which  Dawson  had  fortunately 
left  open,  flung  it  back  almost  upon  the  face  of  my  advancing 
enemies,  and  found  myself  in  the  long  passage  which  led  to 
the  street-door,  in  safety,  but  in  the  thickest  darkness.  A  light 
flashed  from  a  door  to  the  left ;  the  door  was  that  of  the  "  Com- 
mon room  "  which  we  had  first  entered  ;  it  opened,  and  Spider- 
shanks,  with  one  of  his  comrades,  looked  forth,  the  former 
holding  a  light.  I  darted  by  them,  and,  guided  by  their  lamp, 
fled  along  the  passage,  and  reached  the  door.  Imagine  my 
dismay,  when,  either  through  accident,  or  by  the  desire  of  my 
fugitive  companions  to  impede  pursuit,  I  found  it  unexpect- 
edly closed  ! 

The  two  villains  had  now  come  up  to  me  ;  close  at  their  heels 
were  two  more,  probably  my  pursuers  from  the  upper  apart- 
ments. Providentially  the  passage  was  (as  I  before  said)  ex- 
tremely narrow,  and  as  long  as  no  firearms  were  used,  nor  a 
general  rush  resorted  to,  I  had  little  doubt  of  being  able  to 
keep  the  ruffians  at  bay  until  I  had  hit  upon  the  method  of 
springing  the  latch,  and  so  winning  my  escape  from  the  house. 

While  my  left  hand  was  employed  in  feeling  the  latch,  I  made 
such  good  use  of  my  right  as  to  keep  my  antagonists  at  a  safe 


403 


PELHAM 


distance.  The  one  who  was  nearest  to  me  was  Fib  Fakescrew  ; 
he  was  armed  with  a  weapon  exactly  similar  to  my  own.  The 
whole  passage  rung  with  oaths  and  threats.  "  Crash  the  cull — 
down  with  him — down  with  him  before  he  dubs  the  jigger. 
Tip  him  the  degan,  Fib,  fake  him  through  and  through  ;  if  he 
pikes,  we  shall  all  be  scragged."* 

Hitherto,  in  the  confusion,  I  had  not  been  able  to  recall  Job's 
instructions  in  opening  the  latch  ;  at  last  I  remembered,  and 
pressed  the  screw — the  latch  rose — I  opened  the  door  ;  but  not 
wide  enough  to  escape  through  the  aperture.  The  ruffians  saw 
my  escape  at  hand.  "  Rush  the  b —  cove  !  rush  him  !  "  cried 
the  loud  voice  of  one  behind  ;  and,  at  the  word,  Fib  was 
thrown  forwards  upon  the  extended  edge  of  my  blade  ;  scarcely 
with  an  effort  of  my  own  arm  the  sword  entered  his  bosom, 
and  he  fell  at  my  feet  bathed  in  blood  :  the  motion  which  the 
men  thought  would  prove  my  destruction  became  my  salva- 
tion ;  staggered  by  the  fall  of  their  companion,  they  gave  way  : 
I  seized  advantage  of  the  momentary  confusion — threw  open 
the  door,  and,  mindful  of  Job's  admonition,  turned  to  the  right, 
and  fled  onwards,  with  a  rapidity  which  baffled  and  mocked 
pursuit. 

CHAPTER  LXXXIV. 
"  Ille  viam  secat  ad  naves  sociosque  revisit." — VIRGIL. 

THE  day  had  already  dawned,  but  all  was  still  and  silent ; 
my  footsteps  smote  the  solitary  pavement  with  a  strange  and 
unanswered  sound.  Nevertheless,  though  all  pursuit  had  long 
ceased,  I  still  continued  to  run  on  mechanically,  till,  faint  and 
breathless,  I  was  forced  to  pause.  I  looked  round,  but  could 
recongnize  nothing  familiar  in  the  narrow  and  filthy  streets  ; 
even  the  names  of  them  were  to  me  like  an  unknown  language. 
After  a  brief  rest  I  renewed  my  wanderings,  and  at  length 
came  to  an  alley  called  River  Lane  ;  the  name  did  not  de- 
ceive me,  but  brought  me,  after  a  short  walk,  to  the  Thames  ; 
there,  to  my  inexpressible  joy,  I  discovered  a  solitary  boatman, 
and  transported  myself  forthwith  to  the  Whitehall  Stairs. 

Never,  I  ween,  did  gay  gallant,  in  the  decaying  part  of  the 
season,  arrive  at  those  stairs  for  the  sweet  purpose  of  accompany- 
ing his  own  mistress  or  another's  wife  to  green  Richmond,  or 
sunny  Hampton,  with  more  eager  and  animated  delight  than  I  felt 
when  rejecting  the  arm  of  the  rough  boatman,  and  leaping  on  the 

*  Kill  the  fellow,  down  with  him  before  he  opens  the  door.  Stab  him,  through  and 
through  ;  if  he  gets  off  we  shall  all  be  hanged," 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         403 

well-known  stones,  I  hastened  to  that  stand  of  "jarvies"  which 
has  often  been  the  hope  and  shelter  of  belated  member  of  St. 
Stephen's  or  bewetted  fugitive  from  the  Opera — startled  a  sleep- 
ing coachman, — flung  myself  into  his  vehicle — and  descended 
at  Mivart's. 

The  drowsy  porter  surveyed,  and  told  me  to  be  gone  ;  I  had 
forgotten,  till  then,  my  strange  attire.  "  Pooh,  my  friend," 
said  I,  "may  not  Mr.  Pelham  go  to  a  masquerade  as  well  as  his 
betters  ?"  My  voice  and  words  undeceived  my  Cerberus,  and 
I  was  admitted  ;  I  hastened  to  bed,  and  no  sooner  had  I  laid 
my  head  on  my  pillow  than  I  fell  fast  asleep.  It  must  be  con- 
fessed that  I  had  deserved  "tired  Nature's  sweet  restorer." 

I  had  not  been  above  a  couple  of  hours  in  the  land  of  dreams 
when  I  was  awakened  by  some  one  grasping  my  arm  :  the 
events  of  the  past  night  were  so  fresh  in  my  memory  that  I 
sprung  up  as  if  the  knife  was  at  my  throat — my  eyes  opened 
upon  the  peaceful  countenance  of  Mr.  Job  Jonson. 

"  Thank  Heaven,  sir,  you  are  safe  !  I  had  but  a  very  faint 
hope  of  finding  you  here  when  I  came." 

"Why,"  said  I,  rubbing  my  eyes,  "it  is  very  true  that  I  am 
safe,  honest  Job  :  but,  I  believe,  I  have  few  thanks  to  give  you 
for  a  circumstance  so  peculiarly  agreeable  to  myself.  It  would 
have  saved  me  much  trouble,  and  your  worthy  friend,  Mr.  Fib 
Fakescrew,  some  pain,  if  you  had  left  the  door  open — instead 
of  shutting  me  up  with  your  club,  as  you  are  pleased  to 
call  it ! " 

"  Very  true,  sir,"  said  Job,  "and  I  am  extremely  sorry  at  the 
accident :  it  was  Dawson  who  shut  the  door,  through  utter  un- 
consciousness, though  I  told  him  especially  not  to  do  it — the 
poor  dog  did  not  know  whether  he  was  on  his  head  or  his 
heels." 

"  You  have  got  him  safe,"  said  I  quickly. 

"  Ay,  trust  me  for  that,  your  honor.  I  have  locked  him  up 
at  home  while  I  came  here  to  look  for  you." 

"  We  will  lose  no  time  in  transferring  him  to  safer  custody," 
said  I,  leaping  out  of  bed  ;  "  but  be  off  to Street  directly." 

"  Slow  and  sure,  sir,"  answered  Jonson.  "  It  is  for  you  to 
do  whatever  you  please,  but  my  part  of  the  business  is  over. 
I  shall  sleep  at  Dover  to-night,  and  breakfast  at  Calais  to-mor- 
row. Perhaps  it  will  not  be  very  inconvenient  to  your  honor 
to  furnish  me  with  my  first  quarter's  annuity  in  advance,  and  to 
see  that  the  rest  is  duly  paid  into  Lafitte's,  at  Paris,  for  the  use  of 
Captain  de  Courcy.  Where  I  shall  live  hereafter  is  at  present 
uncertain  ;  but  I  dare  say  there  will  be  few  corners  except  old 


404  PELHAM  ; 

England  and  new  England  in  which  I  shall  not  make  merry  on 
your  honor's  bounty." 

"  Pooh  !  my  good  fellow,"  rejoined  I,  "  never  desert  a  coun- 
try to  which  your  talents  do  such  credit ;  stay  here,  and  re- 
form on  your  annuity.  If  ever  I  can  accomplish  my  own 
wishes,  I  will  consult  yours  still  farther  ;  for  I  shall  always  think 
of  your  services  with  gratitude, — though  you  did  shut  the  door 
in  my  face." 

"  No,  sir,"  replied  Job,  "  life  is  a  blessing  I  would  fain  enjoy 
a  few  years  longer  ;  and,  at  present,  my  sojourn  in  England 
would  put  it  wofully  in  danger  of  '  club  law.'  Besides,  I  begin 
to  think  that  a  good  character  is  a  very  agreeable  thing  when 
not  too  troublesome  :  and,  as  I  have  none  left  in  England,  I 
may  as  well  make  the  experiment  abroad.  If  your  honor  will 
call  at  the  magistrate's,  and  take  a  warrant  and  an  officer,  for 
the  purpose  of  ridding  me  of  my  charge,  at  the  very  instant  I 
see  my  responsibility  at  an  end  I  will  have  the  honor  of  bidding 
you  adieu." 

"  Well,  as  you  please,"  said  I.  "  Curse  your  scoundrel's 
cosmetics  !  How  the  deuce  am  I  ever  to  regain  my  natural 
complexion  ?  Look  ye,  sirrah  !  you  have  painted  me  with  a 
long  wrinkle  on  the  left  side  of  my  mouth,  big  enough  to  en- 
gulf all  the  beauty  I  ever  had.  Why,  water  seems  to  have  no 
effect  upon  it  !" 

"  To  be  sure  not,  sir,"  said  Job  calmly ;  "  I  should  be  but  a 
poor  dauber  if  my  paints  washed  off  with  a  wet  sponge." 

"  Grant  me  patience  !  "  cried  I,  in  a  real  panic  :  "  how,  in 
the  name  of  Heaven,  are  they  to  wash  off  !  Am  I,  before  I 
have  reached  my  twenty-third  year,  to  look  like  a  Methodist 
parson  on  the  wrong  side  of  forty,  you  rascal !  " 

"  The  latter  question  your  honor  can  best  answer,"  returned 
Job.  "  With  regard  to  the  former,  I  have  an  unguent  here,  if 
you  will  surfer  me  to  apply  it,  which  will  remove  all  other 
colors  than  those  which  nature  has  bestowed  upon  you." 

With  that  Job  produced  a  small  box  ;  and,  after  a  brief  sub- 
mission to  his  skill,  I  had  the  ineffable  joy  of  beholding  myself 
restored  to  my  original  state.  Nevertheless,  my  delight  was 
somewhat  checked  by  the  loss  of  my  curls  :  I  thanked  Heaven, 
however,  that  the  damage  had  been  sustained  after  Ellen's  ac- 
ceptation of  my  addresses.  A  lover  confined  to  one  should  not 
be  too  destructive,  for  fear  of  the  consequences  to  the  remain- 
der of  the  female  world ;  compassion  is  ever  due  to  the  fair 
sex. 

My  toilet  being  concluded,  Jonson  and  I  repaired  to  the 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         405 

magistrate's.  He  waited  at  the  corner  of  the  street,  while  I 
entered  the  house  : 

"  'Twere  vain  to  tell  what  shook  the  holy  Man, 
Who  looked,  not  lovingly,  at  that  divan." 

Having  summoned  to  my  aid  the  redoubted  Mr. of  mul- 
berry-cheeked recollection,  we  entered  a  hackney  coach,  and 
drove  to  Jonson's  lodgings,  Job  mounting  guard  on  the  box. 

UI  think,  sir,"  said  Mr. ,  looking  up  at  the  man  of  two 

virtues,  "  that  I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  that  gentleman 
before." 

"  Very  likely,"  said  I ;  "he  is  a  young  man  greatly  about 
town." 

When  we  had  safely  lodged  Dawson  (who  seemed  more  col- 
lected, and  even  courageous,  than  I  had  expected)  in  the 
coach,  Job  beckoned  me  into  a  little  parlor.  I  signed  him  a 
draft  on  my  bankers  for  one  hundred  pounds — though  at  that 
time  it  was  like  letting  the  last  drop  from  my  veins — and 
faithfully  promised,  should  Dawson'  evidence  produce  the  de- 
sired end  (of  which,  indeed,  there  was  now  no  doubt),  that  the 
annuity  should  be  regularly  paid,  as  he  desired.  We  then  took 
an  affectionate  farewell  of  each  other. 

"  Adieu,  sir !  "  said  Job,  "  I  depart  into  a  new  world — that  of 
honest  men  !  " 

"If  so,"  said  I,  "adieu  indeed  ! — for  on  this  earth  we  shall 
never  meet  again  !  " 

We  returned  to Street.  As  I  was  descending  from  the 

coach,  a  female,  wrapped  from  head  to  foot  in  a  cloak,  came 
eagerly  up  to  me,  and  seized  me  by  the  arm.  "  For  God's  sake," 
said  she,  in  a  low,  hurried  voice,  "  come  aside,  and  speak  to 
me  for  a  single  moment."  Consigning  Dawson  to  the  sole 
charge  of  the  officer,  I  did  as  I  was  desired.  When  we  had 
got  some  paces  down  the  street,  the  female  stopped.  Though 
she  held  her  veil  closely  drawn  over  her  face,  her  voice  and 
air  were  not  to  be  mistaken  :  I  knew  her  at  once.  "  Glanville," 
said  she, with  great  agitation,  "Sir  Reginald  Glanville;  tell  me,  is 
he  in  real  danger?"  She  stopped  short — she  could  say  no  more. 

"  I  trust  not!"  said  I,  appearing  not  to  recognize  the  speaker. 

"  I  trust  not  ! "  she  repeated  ;  "  is  that  all  !  "  And  then 
the  passionate  feelings  of  her  sex  overcoming  every  other  con- 
sideration, she  seized  me  by  the  hand  and  said  :  "  Oh,  Mr. 
Pelham,  for  mercy's  sake,  tell  me,  is  he  in  the  power  of  that 
villain  Thornton  ?  You  need  disguise  nothing  from  me  ;  I 
know  all  the  fatal  history." 


406  PELHAM  ; " 

"  Compose  yourself,  dear,  dear  Lady  Roseville,"  said  I 
soothingly  :  "  for  it  is  in  vain  any  longer  to  affect  not  to  know 
you.  Glanville  is  safe ;  I  have  brought  with  me  a  witness 
whose  testimony  must  release  him." 

"  God  bless  you,  God  bless  you  !  "  said  Lady  Roseville,  and 
she  burst  into  tears  ;  but  she  dried  them  directly,  and  recov- 
ering some  portion  of  that  dignity  which  never  long  forsakes  a 
woman  of  virtuous  and  educated  mind,  she  resumed,  proudly, 
yet  bitterly  :  "  It  is  no  ordinary  motive,  no  motive  which  you 
might  reasonably  impute  to  me,  that  he  has  brought  me  here. 
Sir  Reginald  Glanville  can  never  be  anything  more  to  me  than 
a  friend — but,  of  all  friends,  the  most  known  and  valued.  I 
learned  from  his  servant  of  his  disappearance  ;  and  my  ac- 
quaintance with  his  secret  history  enabled  me  to  account  for  it 
in  the  most  fearful  manner.  In  short,  I — I — but  explanations 
are  idle  now  ;  you  will  never  say  that  you  have  seen  me  here, 
Mr.  Pelham  :  you  will  endeavor  even  to  forget  it — farewell." 

Lady  Roseville,  then  drawing  her  cloak  closely  round  her, 
left  me  with  a  fleet  and  light  step,  and,  turning  the  corner  of 
the  street,  disappeared. 

I  returned  to  my  charge :  I  demanded  an  immediate  inter- 
view with  the  magistrate.  "I  have  come,"  said  I,  "to  redeem 
my  pledge,  and  procure  the  acquittal  of  the  innocent."  I  then 
briefly  related  my  adventures,  only  concealing  (according  to 
my  promise)  all  description  of  my  helpmate,  Job  ;  and  prepared 
the  worthy  magistrate  for  the  confession  and  testimony  of 
Dawson.  That  unhappy  man  hadjust  concluded  his  narration 
when  an  officer  entered  and  whispered  the  magistrate  that 
Thornton  was  in  waiting. 

"  Admit  him,"  said  Mr. ,  aloud.  Thornton  entered  with 

his  usual  easy  and  swaggering  air  of  effrontery  :  but  no  sooner 
did  he  set  his  eyes  upon  Dawson  than  a  deadly  and  withering 
change  passed  over  his  countenance.  Dawson  could  not  bridle 
the  cowardly  petulance  of  his  spite.  "  They  know  all,  Thorn- 
ton !  "  said  he,  with  a  look  of  triumph.  The  villain  turned 
slowly  from  him  to  us,  muttering  something  we  could  not  hear. 
He  saw  upon  my  face,  upon  the  magistrate's,  that  his  doom 
was  sealed  :  his  desperation  gave  him  presence  of  mind,  and 
he  made  a  sudden  rush  to  the  door ;  the  officer  in  waiting 
seized  him.  Why  should  I  detail  the  rest  of  the  scene  ?  He 
was  that  day  fully  committed  for  trial,  and  Sir  Reginald  Gten- 
ville  honorably  released,  and  unhesitatingly  acquitted. 


OR,  ADVENTUkES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         407 

CHAPTER  LXXXV. 

"  Un  hymen  qu'on  souhaite 

Entre  les  gens  comme  nous  est  chose  bientot-fait, 
Je  te  veux  ;  meveux-tu  de  meme?" — MOLIERE. 

"  So  may  he  rest,  his  faults  lie  gently  on  him." — SHAKSPEARE. 

THE  main  interest  of  my  adventures — if,  indeed,  I  may  flatter 
myself  that  they  ever  contained  any — is  now  over  ;  the  mystery 
is  explained,  the  innocent  acquitted,  and  the  guilty  condemned. 
Moreover,  all  obstacles  between  the  marriage  of  the  unworthy 
hero  with  the  peerless  heroine  being  removed,  it  would  be  but 
an  idle  prolixity  to  linger  over  the  preliminary  details  of  an 
orthodox  and  customary  courtship.  Nor  is  it  for  me  to  dilate 
upon  the  exaggerated  expressions  of  gratitude  in  which  the  af- 
fectionate heart  of  Glanville  found  vent  for  my  fortunate  exer- 
tions on  his  behalf.  He  was  not  willing  that  any  praise  to  which 
I  might  be  entitled  for  them  should  be  lost.  He  narrated  to 
Lady  Glanville  and  Ellen  my  adventures  with  the  comrades  of 
the  worthy  Job  ;  from  the  lips  of  the  mother,  and  the  eyes  of 
the  dear  sister,  came  my  sweetest  addition  to  the  good  fortune 
which  had  made  me  the  instrument  of  Glanville's  safety  and 
acquittal.  I  was  not  condemned  to  a  long  protraction  of  that 
time,  which,  if  it  be  justly  termed  the  happiest  of  our  lives,  we 
(viz.,  all  true  lovers),  through  that  perversity  common  to  human 
nature,  most  ardently  wish  to  terminate. 

On  that  day  month  which  saw  Glanville's  release  my  bridals 
were  appointed.  Reginald  was  even  more  eager  than  myself  in 
pressing  for  an  early  day ;  firmly  persuaded  that  his  end  was 
rapidly  approaching,  his  most  prevailing  desire  was  to  witness 
our  union.  This  wish,  and  the  interest  he  took  in  our  happi- 
ness, gave  him  an  energy  and  animation  which  impressed  us  with 
the  deepest  hopes  for  his  ultimate  recovery  ;  and  the  fatal  dis- 
ease to  which  he  was  a  prey  nursed  the  fondness  of  our  hearts 
by  the  bloom  of  cheek,  and  brightness  of  eye,  with  which  it 
veiled  its  desolating  and  gathering  progress. 

From  the  eventful  day  on  which  I  had  seen  Lady  Roseville 

<in Street  we  had  not  met.  She  had  shut  herself  up  in  her 

splendid  home,  and  the  newspapers  teemed  with  regret  at  the 
reported  illness  and  certain  seclusion  of  one  whose  f$tes  and 
gayeties  had  furnished  them  with  their  brightest  pages.  The 
only  one  admitted  to  her  was  Ellen.  To  her  she  had  for  some 
time  made  no  secret  of  her  attachment — and  from  her  the  daily 
news  of  Sir  Reginald's  health  was  ascertained.  Several  times, 


408 

when  at  a  late  hour  I  left  Glanville's  apartments,  I  passed  the 
figure  of  a  woman,  closely  muffled,  and  apparently  watching  be- 
fore his  windows — which,  owing  to  the  advance  of  summer, 
were  never  closed — to  catch,  perhaps,  a  view  of  his  room,  or  a 
passing  glimpse  of  his  emaciated  and  fading  figure.  If  that  sad 
and  lonely  vigil  was  kept  by  her  whom  I  suspected,  deep,  in- 
deed, and  mighty,  was  the  love  which  could  so  humble  the 
heart,  and  possess  the  spirit,  of  the  haughty  and  high-born 
Countess  of  Roseville  ! 

I  turn  to  a  very  different  personage  in  this  veritable  histoire. 
My  father  and  mother  were  absent  at  Lady  H.'s  when  my 
marriage  was  fixed  ;  to  both  of  them  I  wrote  for  their  appro- 
bation of  my  choice.  From  Lady  Frances  I  received  the 
answer  which  I  subjoin  : 

"  MY  DEAREST  SON  : 

"  Your  father  desires  me  to  add  his  congratulations  to  mine 
upon  the  election  you  have  made.  I  shall  hasten  to  London  to 
be  present  at  the  ceremony.  Although  you  must  not  be 
offended  with  me  if  I  say,  that  with  your  person,  accomplish- 
ments, birth,  and  (above  all)  high  ton,  you  might  have  chosen 
among  the  loftiest  and  wealthiest  families  in  the  country  ;  yet 
I  am  by  no  means  displeased  or  disappointed  with  your  future 
wife.  To  say  nothing  of  the  antiquity  of  her  name  (the 
Glanvilles  intermarried  with  the  Pelhams  in  the  reign  of  Henry 
II.)  it  is  a  great  step  to  future  distinction  to  marry  a  beauty, 
especially  one  so  celebrated  as  Miss  Glanville — perhaps  it  is 
among  the  surest  ways  to  the  cabinet.  The  forty  thousand 
pounds  which  you  say  Miss  Glanville  is  to  receive  make,  to 
be  sure,  but  a  slender  income  ;  though,  when  added  to  your 
own  fortune,  that  sum  in  ready  money  would  have  been  a 
great  addition  to  the  Glenmorris  property,  if  your  uncle — I 
have  no  patience  with  him — had  not  married  again. 

"  However,  you  will  lose  no  time  in  getting  into  the  House — 
at  all  events  the  capital  will  ensure  your  return  for  a  borough, 
and  maintain  you  comfortably  till  you  are  in  the  administra- 
tion ;  when  of  course  it  matters  very  little  what  your  fortune 
may  be — tradesmen  will  be  too  happy  to  have  your  name  in^ 
their  books  ;  be  sure,  therefore,  that  the  money  is  not  tied  up. 
Miss  Glanville  must  see  that  her  own  interest,  as  well  as  yours, 
is  concerned  in  your  having  the  unfettered  disposal  of  a  for- 
tune, which,  if  restricted,  you  would  find  it  impossible  to  live 
upon.  Pray,  how  is  Sir  Reginald  Glanville  ?  Is  his  cough  as 
bad  as  ever  ?  By  the  by,  how  is  his  property  entailed  ? 


OR,  ADVENTURES    OF    A    GENTLEMAN.  409 

"Will  you  order  Stonor  to  have  the  house  ready  for  us  on 
Friday,  when  I  shall  return  home  in  time  for  dinner  ?  Let  me 
again  congratulate  you  most  sincerely  on  your  choice.  I 
always  thought  you  had  more  common-sense,  as  well  as  genius, 
than  any  young  man  I  ever  knew  ;  you  have  shown  it  in  this 
important  step.  Domestic  happiness,  my  dearest  Henry, 
ought  to  be  peculiarly  sought  for  by  every  Englishman,  how- 
ever elevated  his  station  ;  and  when  I  reflect  upon  Miss  Glan- 
ville's  qualifications,  and  her  celebrity  as  a  beauty,  I  have  no 
doubt  of  your  possessing  the  felicity  you  deserve.  But  be 
sure  that  the  fortune  is  not  settled  away  from  you  ;  poor  Sir 
Reginald  is  not  (I  believe)  at  all  covetous  or  worldly,  and  will 
not,  therefore,  insist  upon  the  point. 

"  God  bless  you,  and  grant  you  every  happiness.  Ever,  my 
dear  Henry, 

"Your  very  affectionate  mother, 

"  F.  PELHAM. 

"  P.S.— I  think  it  will  be  better  to  give  out  that  Miss  Glan- 
ville  has  eighty  thousand  pounds.  Be  sure,  therefore,  that  you 
do  not  contradict  me." 

The  days,  the  weeks  flew  away.  Ah,  happy  days  !  yet  I  do 
not  regret  while  I  recall  you  !  He  that  loves  much,  fears 
even  in  his  best-founded  hopes.  What  were  the  anxious  long- 
ings for  a  treasure — in  my  view  only,  not  in  my  possession — 
to  the  deep  joy  of  finding  it  forever  my  own. 

The  day  arrived — I  was  yet  at  my  toilet,  and  Bedos  in  the 
greatest  confusion  (poor  fellow,  he  was  as  happy  as  myself  !), 
when  a  letter  was  brought  me  stamped  with  the  foreign  post- 
mark. It  was  from  the  exemplary  Job  Jonson,  and  though  I 
did  not  even  open  it  on  that  day,  yet  it  shall  be  more  favored 
by  the  reader — viz.,  if  he  will  not  pass  over,  without  reading, 
the  following  effusion  : 

"  Rue  des  Moulins,  No.  — ,  Paris. 
"  HONORED  SIR  : 

"  I  arrived  in  Paris  safely,  and  reading  in  the  English  papers 
the  full  success  of  our  enterprise,  as  well  as  in  the  Morning 
Post  of  the  — th  your  approaching  marriage  with  Miss  Glan- 
ville,  I  cannot  refrain  from  the  liberty  of  congratulating  you 
upon  both,  as  well  as  of  reminding  you  of  the  exact  day  on 

which  the  first  quarter  of  my  annuity  will  be  due  ;  it  is  the 

of ;  for  I  presume  your  honor  kindly  made  me  a  present 

of   the  draft  for  one  hundred  pounds,  in  order  to  pay  my 
travelling  expenses. 


410  PELHAM  ; 

"  I  find  that  the  boys  are  greatly  incensed  against  me  ;  but  as 
Dawson  was  too  much  bound  by  his  oath  to  betray  a  tittle 
against  them,  I  trust  I  shall  ultimately  pacify  the  club,  and  re- 
turn to  England.  A  true  patriot,  sir,  never  loves  to  leave  his 
native  country.  Even  were  I  compelled  to  visit  Van  Diemen's 
Land,  the  ties  of  birthplace  would  be  so  strong  as  to  induce 
me  to  seize  the  first  opportunity  of  returning  !  I  am  not,  your 
honor,  very  fond  of  the  French — they  are  an  idle,  frivolous, 
penurious,  poor  nation.  Only  think,  sir,  the  other  day  I  saw 
a  gentleman  of  the  most  noble  air  secrete  something  at  a  caft, 
Avhich  I  could  not  clearly  discern  ;  as  he  wrapped  it  carefully 
in  paper  before  he  placed  it  in  his  pocket,  I  judged  that  it 
was  a  silver  cream  ewer  at  least  ;  accordingly,  I  followed  him 
out,  and  from  pure  curiosity — I  do  assure  your  honor  it  was 
from  no  other  motive — I  transferred  this  purloined  treasure  to 
my  own  pocket.  You  will  imagine,  sir,  the  interest  with  which 
I  hastened  to  a  lonely  spot  in  the  Tuileries,  and  carefully 
taking  out  the  little  packet,  unfolded  paper  by  paper,  till  I 
came  to — yes,  sir,  till  I  came  to — five  lumps  of  sugar!  Oh, 
the  French  are  a  mean  people — a  very  mean  people — I  hope  I 
shall  soon  be  able  to  return  to  England.  Meanwhile,  I  am 
going  into  Holland,  to  see  how  those  rich  burghers  spend  their 
time  and  their  money.  I  suppose  poor  Dawson,  as  well  as  the 
rascal  Thornton,  will  be  hung  before  you  receive  this — they 
deserve  it  richly — it  is  such  fellows  who  disgrace  the  profes- 
sion. He  is  but  a  very  poor  bungler  who  is  forced  to  cut 
throats  as  well  as  pockets.  And  now,  your  honor,  wishing 
you  all  happiness  with  your  lady,  I  beg  to  remain, 

"Your  very  obedient  humble  servant, 

"  FERDINAND  DE  COURCY,  etc.,  etc." 

Struck  with  the  joyous  countenance  of  my  honest  valet  as  I 
took  my  gloves  and  hat  from  his  hand,  I  could  not  help  wishing 
to  bestow  upon  him  a  blessing  similar  to  that  I  was  about  to  pos- 
sess. "Bedos,"  said  I,  "  Bedos,  my  good  fellow,  you  left  your 
wife  to  come  to  me  ;  you  shall  not  surfer  by  your  fidelity:  send  for 
her — we  will  find  room  for  her  in  our  future  establishment." 

The  smiling  face  of  the  Frenchman  underwent  a  rapid  change. 
"  Ma  foi"  said  he,  in  his  own  tongue  ;  "  Monsieur  is  too  good. 
An  excess  of  happiness  hardens  the  heart ;  and  so,  for  fear  of 
forgetting  my  gratitude  to  Providence,  I  will,  with  Monsieur's 
permission,  suffer  my  adored  wife  to  remain  where  she  is." 

After  so  pious  a  reply  I  should  have  been  worse  than  wicked 
had  I  pressed  the  matter  any  fuither. 

I  found  all  ready  at  Berkeley  Square.     Lady  Glauville  is  ono 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         41! 

of  those  good  persons  who  think  a  marriage  out  of  church  is 
no  marriage  at  all  ;  to  church,  therefore,  we  went.  Although 
Reginald  was  now  so  reduced  that  he  could  scarcely  support 
the  least  fatigue,  he  insisted  on  giving  Ellen  away.  He  was 
that  morning,  and  had  been  for  the  last  two  or  three  days,  con- 
siderably better,  and  our  happiness  seemed  to  grow  less  selfish 
in  our  increasing  hope  of  his  recovery. 

When  we  returned  from  church,  our  intention  was  to  set  off 
immediately  to Hall,  a  seat  which  I  had  hired  for  our  recep- 
tion. On  re-entering  the  house,  Glanville  called  me  aside — I  fol- 
lowed his  infirm  and  tremulous  steps  in  to  a  private  apartment. 

"  Pelham,"  said  he,  "  we  shall  never  meet  again  !  No  mat- 
ter— you  are  now  happy,  and  I  shall  shortly  be  so.  But  there 
is  one  office  I  have  yet  to  request  from  your  friendship  ;  when 
I  am  dead,  let  me  be  buried  by  her  side,  and  let  one  tombstone 
cover  both." 

I  pressed  his  hand,  and,  with  tears  in  my  eyes,  made  him  the 
promise  he  required. 

" It  is  enough,"  said  he  ;  "I  have  no  farther  business  with 
life.  God  bless  you,  my  friend — my  brother;  do  not  let  a 
thought  of  me  cloud  your  happiness." 

He  rose,  and  we  turned  to  quit  the  room  ;  Glanville  was 
leaning  on  my  arm  ;  when  he  had  moved  a  few  paces  towards 
the  door  he  stopped  abruptly.  Imagining  that  the  pause  pro- 
ceeded  from  pain  or  debility,  I  turned  my  eyes  upon  his  coun- 
tenance— a  fearful  and  convulsive  change  was  rapidly  passing 
over  it — his  eyes  stared  wildly  upon  vacancy. 

"Merciful  God — is  it — can  it  be?"  he  said  in  a  low,  inward  tone. 

Before  I  could  speak,  I  felt  his  hand  relax  its  grasp  upon  my 
arm — he  fell  upon  the  floor — I  raised  him — a  smile  of  ineffable 
serenity  and  peace  was  upon  his  lips  ;  his  face  was  the  face  of 
an  angel,  but  the  spirit  had  passed  away  ! 

CHAPTER  LXXXVI. 

"  Now  haveth  good  day,  good  men  all, 
Haveth  good  day,  yong  and  old  ; 
Haveth  good  day,  both  great  and  small, 
And  graunt  merci  a  thousand  fold  ! 
Gif  ever  I  might  full  fain  I  wold, 
Don  ought  that  were  unto  your  leve, 
Christ  keep  you  out  of  cares  cold. 
For  now  'tis  time  to  take  my  leave." — Old  Song. 

SEVKRAL  months  have  now  elapsed  since  my  marriage.  I 
am  living  quietly  in  the  country,  among  my  books,  and  looking 


412  PELHAM  J 

forward  with  calmness,  rather  than  impatience,  to  the  time 
which  shall  again  bring  me  before  the  world.  Marriage  with 
me  is  not  that  sepulchre  of  all  human  hope  and  energy  which 
it  often  is  with  others.  I  am  not  more  partial  to  my  arm-chair, 
nor  more  averse  to  shaving  than  of  yore.  I  do  not  bound  my 
prospects  to  the  dinner-hour,  nor  my  projects  to  "migrations 
from  the  blue  bed  to  the  brown."  Matrimony  found  me  am- 
bitious ;  it  has  not  cured  me  of  the  passion  :  but  it  has  con- 
centrated what  was  scattered,  and  determined  what  was  vague. 
If  I  am  less  anxious  than  formerly  for  the  reputation  to  be  ac- 
quired in  society,  I  am  more  eager  for  honor  in  the  world  ;  and 
instead  of  amusing  my  enemies,  and  the  saloon,  I  trust  yet  to 
be  useful  to  my  friends  and  to  mankind. 

Whether  this  is  a  hope  altogether  vain  and  idle ;  whether  I 
have,  in  the  self-conceit  common  to  all  men  (thou  wilt  per- 
chance add,  peculiarly  prominent  in  myself  !),  overrated  both 
the  power  and  the  integrity  of  my  mind  (for  the  one  is  bootless 
without  the  other)  neither  I  nor  the  world  can  yet  tell.  "  Time," 
says  one  of  the  fathers,  "is  the  only  touchstone  which  distin- 
guishes the  prophet  from  the  boaster." 

Meanwhile,  gentle  reader,  during  the  two  years  which  I  pur- 
pose devoting  to  solitude  and  study,  I  shall  not  be  so  occupied 
with  my  fields  and  folios,  as  to  become  uncourteous  to  thee. 
If  ever  thou  hast  known  me  in  the  city,  I  give  thee  a  hearty 
invitation  to  come  and  visit  me  in  the  country.  I  promise 
thee  that  my  wines  and  viands  shall  not  disgrace  the  companion 
of  Guloseton  ;  nor  my  conversation  be  much  duller  than  my 
book.  I  will  compliment  thee  on  thy  horses  ;  thou  shalt  con- 
gratulate me  upon  my  wife.  Over  old  wine  we  will  talk  over 
new  events ;  and,  if  we  flag  at  the  latter,  why,  we  will  make 
ourselves  amends  with  the  former.  In  short,  if  thou  art  neither 
very  silly  nor  very  wise,  it  shall  be  thine  own  fault  if  we  are 
not  excellent  friends. 

I  feel  that  it  would  be  but  poor  courtesy  in  me,  after  having 
kept  company  with  Lord  Vincent  through  the  tedious  journey 
of  these  pages,  to  dismiss  him  now  without  one  word  of  vale- 
diction. May  he,  in  the  political  course  he  has  adopted,  find 
all  the  admiration  which  his  talents  deserve  ;  and  if  ever  we 
meet  as  foes,  let  our  heaviest  weapon  be  a  quotation,  and  our 
bitterest  vengeance  a  jest. 

Lord  Guloseton  regularly  corresponds  with  me,  and  his  last 
letter  contained  a  promise  to  visit  me  in  the  course  of  the 
month,  in  order  to  recover  his  appetite  (which  has  been  much 
relaxed  of  late)  by  the  country  air. 


OR,  ADVENTURES  OF  A  GENTLEMAN.         413 

My  uncle  wrote  to  me,  three  weeks  since,  announcing  the 
death  of  the  infant  Lady  Glenmorris  had  brought  him.  Sin- 
cerely do  I  wish  that  his  loss  may  be  supplied.  I  have  al- 
ready sufficient  fortune  for  my  wants,  and  sufficient  hope  for 
my  desires 

Thornton  died  as  he  had  lived — the  reprobate  and  the  ruf- 
fian. "  Pooh,"  said  he,  in  his  quaint  brutality,  to  the  worthy 
clergyman  who  attended  his  last  moments  with  more  zeal  than 
success  ;  "  Pooh,  what's  the  difference  between  gospel  and 
go — spell?  We  agree  like  a  bell  and  its  clapper — you're 
prating  while  I'm  hanging" 

Dawson  died  in  prison,  penitent  and  in  peace.  Cowardice, 
which  spoils  the  honest  man,  often  redeems  the  knave. 

From  Lord  Davvton  I  have  received  a  letter,  requesting  me 
lo  accept  a  borough  (in  his  gift),  just  vacated.  It  is  a  pity  that 
generosity — such  a  prodigal  to  those  who  do  not  want  it — 
should  often  be  such  a  niggard  to  those  who  do.  I  need  not 
specify  my  answer.  I  hope  yet  to  teach  Lord  Dawton  that  to 
forgive  the  minister  is  not  to  forget  the  affront.  Meanwhile, 
I  am  content  to  bury  myself  in  my  retreat,  with  my  mute  teach- 
ers of  logic  and  legislature,  in  order,  hereafter,  to  justify  his 
lordship's  good  opinion  of  my  abilities.  Fareweli,  Brutus,  we 
shall  meet  at  Philippi ! 

It  is  some  months  since  Lady  Roseville  left  England  ;  the 
last  news  we  received  of  her  informed  us  that  she  was  living 
at  Sienna,  in  utter  seclusion,  and  very  infirm  health. 

"  The  day  drags  thro',  though  storms  keep  out  the  sun, 
And  thus  the  heart  will  break,  yet  brokenly  live  on." 

Poor  Lady  Glanville  !  the  mother  of  one  so  beautiful,  so 
gifted,  and  so  lost.  What  can  I  say  of  her  which  "you,  and 
you,  and  you — "  all  who  are  parents,  cannot  feel  a  thousand 
times  more  acutely,  in  those  recesses  of  the  heart  too  deep  for 
words  or  tears.  There  are  yet  many  hours  in  which  I  find  the 
sister  of  the  departed  in  grief  that  even  her  husband  cannot 
console  :  and  I — / — my  friend,  my  brother,  have  I  forgot- 
ten thee  in  death  ?  I  lay  down  the  pen,  I  turn  from  my  em- 
ployment— thy  dog  is  at  my  feet,  and  looking  at  me,  as  if 
conscious  of  my  thoughts,  with  an  eye  almost  as  tearful  as 
my  own. 

But  it  is  not  thus  that  I  will  part  from  my  reader  ;  our 
greeting  was  not  in  sorrow,  neither  shall  be  our  adieus.  For 
thee,  who  hast  gone  with  me  through  the  motley  course  of  my 
confessions,  I  would  fain  trust  that  I  have  sometimes  hinted  at 


414  PELHAM  ; 

thy  instruction,  when  only  appearing  to  strive  for  thy  amuse- 
ment. But  on  this  I  will  not  dwell  ;  for  the  moral  insisted 
upon  often  loses  its  effect ;  and  all  that  I  will  venture  to  hope 
is,  that  I  have  opened  to  thee  one  true,  and  not  utterly  hack- 
neyed, page  in  the  various  and  mighty  volume  of  mankind.  In 
this  busy  and  restless  world  I  have  not  been  a  vague  specu- 
lator, nor  an  idle  actor.  While  all  around  me  were  vigilant,  I 
have  not  laid  me  down  to  sleep — even  for  the  luxury  of  a  poet's 
dream.  Like  the  schoolboy,  I  have  considered  study  as  study, 
but  action  as  delight. 

Nevertheless,  whatever  I  have  seen,  or  heard,  or  felt,  has 
been  treasured  in  my  memory,  and  brooded  over  by  my 
thoughts.  I  now  place  the  result  before  you  : 

"  Si  cut  meus  est  mos, 
Nescio  quid  meditans  nugarum  ; — 

but  not  perhaps, 

"  lotus  in  illis."  * 

Whatever  Society — whether  in  a  higher  or  lower  grade — I 
have  portrayed,  my  sketches  have  been  taken  rather  as  a  wit- 
ness than  a  copyist ;  for  I  have  never  shunned  that  circle,  nor 
that  individual,  which  presented  life  in  a  fresh  view,  or  man  in 
a  new  relation.  It  is  right,  however,  that  I  should  add,  that  as 
I  have  not  wished  to  be  an  individual  satirist,  rather  than  a 
general  observer,  I  have  occasionally,  in  the  subordinate  char- 
acters (such  as  Russelton  and  Gordon),  taken  only  the  outline 
from  truth,  and  filled  up  the  colors  at  my  leisure  and  my  will.* 

With  regard  to  myself  I  have  been  more  candid.  I  have  not 
only  shown — non  pared  manu — my  faults,  but  (grant  that  this  is 
a  much  rarer  exposure)  my  foibles  j  and,  in  my  anxiety  for  your 
entertainment,  I  have  not  grudged  you  the  pleasure  of  a  laugh — 
even  at  my  own  expense.  Forgive  me,  then,  if  I  am  not  a 
fashionable  hero  ;  forgive  me  if  I  have  not  wept  over  a  "  blighted 
spirit"  nor  boasted  of  a  "British  heart";  and  allow  that  a 

*  According  to  my  custom,  meditating,  I  scarcely  know  what  of  trifles  ;    but   not,   per- 
haps, wholly  wrapt  in  them. 

*  May  the  Author,  as  well  as  the  Hero,  be  permitted,  upon  this  point,  to  solicit   atten- 
tion and  belief.     In  all  the   lesser   characters,    of  which  the  first  idea  was  taken  from  life, 
especially  those  referred  to  in  the  text,  he  has,  for  reasons  perhaps  obvious  enough  without 
the  tedium  of  recital,  purposely  introduced  sufficient  variation  and  addition  to  remove,  in  his 
own  opinion,  the  odium  either  of  a  copy  or  of  a  caricature.     The  Author  thinks  it  the  more 
necessary  in  the  present  edition  to  insist  upon  this,  with  all  honest  and  sincere  earnestness, 
because  in  the  first  it  was  too  much  the  custom  of  criticism  to  judge  of  his  sketches  from 
a  resemblance  to  some  supposed  originals,  and'not  from  adherence  to  that  sole  source  of  all 
legitimate  imitation,  Nature — Nature  as  exhibited    in  the  general  mass,  not  in  the   isolated 
instance.     It  is  the  duty  of  the  novelist  rather  to  abstract  than  to  copy  :    all  humors,  all  in- 
dividual peculiarities  are  his  appropriate  and  fair  materials  :   not  so  are  the  humorist    and 
the  individual !    Observation  should   resemble  the  eastern  bird,  and  while  it   nourishes 
itself  upon  the  suction  of  a  thousand  flowers,  never  be  seen  to  settle  upon  one  ! 


OR,    ADVENTURES    OF    A    GENTLEMAN.  415 

man  who,  in  these  days  of  alternate  Werters  and  Worthies,  is 
neither  the  one  nor  the  other,  is  at  least  a  novelty  in  print, 
though,  I  fear,  common  enough  in  life. 

And  now,  my  kind  reader,  having  remembered  the  proverb, 
and  in  saying  one  word  to  thee  having  said  two  for  myself,  I 
will  no  longer  detain  thee  Whatever  thou  mayest  think  of  me 
and  my  thousand  faults,  both  as  an  author  and  a  man,  believe 
me  it  is  with  a  sincere  and  affectionate  wish  for  the  accomplish- 
ment of  my  parting  words,  that  I  bid  thee — -farewell! 


THE  END, 


LUCRETIA 


PREFACE  TO  THE  PRESENT  EDITION. 


"  LUCRETIA,  or  the  Children  of  Night,"  was  begun  simultaneously  with 
"  The  Caxtons,  a  Family  Picture."  The  two  fictions  were  intended  as 

pendants  ;  both  serving,  amongst  other  collateral  aims  and  objects,  to  show 
the  influence  of  home  education — of  early  circumstance  and  example  upon 
after  character  and  conduct.  "  Lucretia  "  was  completed  and  published 
before  "  The  Caxtons."  The  moral  design  of  the  first  was  misunderstood 
and  assailed  ;  that  of  the  last  was  generally  acknowledged  and  approved  ;  the 
moral  design  in  both  was  nevertheless  precisely  the  same.  But  in  one  it  was 
sought  through  the  darker  side  of  human  nature  ;  in  the  other,  through  the 
more  sunny  and  cheerful — one  shows  the  evil,  the  other  the  salutary  influ- 
ences of  early  circumstance  and  training.  Necessarily  therefore  the  first  re- 
sorts to  the  tragic  elements  of  awe  and  distress,  the  sec  nd  to  the  comic  ele- 
ments of  humor  and  agreeable  emotion.  These  differences  serve  to  explain 
the  different  reception  that  awaited  the  two,  and  may  teach  us  how  little  the 
real  conception  of  an  author  is  known,  and  how  little  it  is  cared  for :  we 
judge — not  by  the  purpose  he  conceives,  but  according  as  the  impressions 
he  effects  are  pleasurable  or  painful.  But  while  I  cannot  acquiesce  in  much 
of  the  hostile  criticism  this  fiction  produced  at  its  first  appearance,  I  readily 
allow  that,  as  a  mere  question  of  art,  the  story  might  have  been  improved  in 
itself,  and  rendered  more  acceptable  to  the  reader,  by  diminishing  the  gloom 
of  the  catastrophe.  In  this  edition  I  have  endeavored  to  do  so  ;  and  the 
victim  whose  fate  in  the  former  cast  of  the  work  most  revolted  the  reader, 
as  a  violation  of  the  trite  but  amiable  law  of  Poetical  Justice,  is  saved  from 
the  hands  of  "  The  Children  of  Night."  Perhaps — whatever  the  faults 
of  this  work — it  equals  most  oi  its  companions  in  the  sus,tftinment  of  inter 
est,  and  in  that  coincidence  between  the  gradual  development  of  motive  or 
passion,  and  the  sequences  of  external  events  constituting  plot,  which  mainly 
distinguish  the  physical  awe  of  tragedy  from  the  coarse  horrors  of  melo- 
drama. I  trust  at  least  that  I  shall  now  find  few  readers,  who  will  not  read- 

"TTy" acknowledge  that  ihe  delineation  of  crime  has  only  been  employed  for 
the  grave  and  impressive  purpose  which  brings  it  within  the  due  province  of 
the  poet.  as_an  element  of  terror  and  a  warning  to  the  heart.  But  should 
any  candid  reader,  after  careful  perusal,  close  this  book  with  a  doubt  as  to 
its  ethical  object  and  tendency,  or  as  to  the  sanction  of  its  sombre  materials 
Ivy  the  example  of  the  great  masters  in  imaginative  composition,  I  will  en- 
treat him  to  cast  his  eye  over  the  Critical  Essay  entitled  "  A  Word  to  the 
Public,"  appended  to  this  edition,  which  contains  all  that  I  can  desire  to  say 
in  definition  of  the  purpose  designed  in  Lucretia,  and  in  defence  of  those 
legitimate  sources  of  tragic  interest  from  which  the  narrative  is  derived. 

LONDON,  Dec.  7,  1853. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  FIRST  EDITION. 


IT  is  somewhere  about  four  years  since  I  appeared  before  the  public  as  the 
writer  of  a  fiction,  which  I  then  intimated  would  probably  be  my  last.  ;  but 
bad  habits  are  stronger  than  good  intentions.  When  Fabticio,  in  his  hos- 
pital, resolved  upon  abjuring  the  vocation  of  the  Poet,  he  was  in  truth  re- 
commencing his  desperate  career  by  a  Farewell  to  the  Muses  :  I  need  not 
apply  the  allusion. 

I  must  own,  however,  that  there  had  long  been  a  desire  in  my  mind  to 
trace,  in  some  work  or  other,  the  strange  and  secret  wa)S  through  which  that 
Arch-ruler  of  Civilization  familiarly  called  "  Money, '  insinuates  itself  into 
our  thoughts  and  motives,  our  hearts  and  actions  ;  affecting  those  who  un- 
dervalue as  those  who  overestimate  its  importance  ;  ruining  viriues  in  the 
spendthrift  no  less  than  engendering  vices  in  the  miser.  But  when  I  half 
implied  my  farewell  to  the  character  of  a  novelist,  I  had  imagined  that  this 
conception  might  be  best  woiked  out  upon  the  stage.  After  some  unpub- 
lished and  imperfect  attempts  towards  so  realizing  my  design,  I  found  either 
that  the  subject  was  too  wide  for  the  limits  of  the  Drama,  or  that  I  wanted 
that  faculty  of  concentration  which  alone  enables  the  dramatist  to  compress 
multiform  varieties  into  a  very  limited  compass.  With  this  design,  I  desired 
to  unite  some  exhibition  of  what  seems  to  me  a  principal  vice  in  the  hot  and 
emulous  chase  for  happiness  or  fame,  fortune  or  knowledge,  which  is  almost 
synonymous  with  the  cant  phrase  of  "the  March  of  Intellect,"  in  that  crisis 
of  society  to  which  we  have:  arrived.  The  vice  I  allude  to  is  Impatience. 
That  eager  desire  to  press  forward,  not  so  much  to  conquer  obstacles,  as  to 
elude  them  ;  that  gambling  with  the  solemn  destinies  of  life,  seeking  ever  to 
set  success  upon  the  chance  of  a  die  ;  that  hastening  from  the  wish  conceived 
to  the  end  accomplished  ;  that  thirst  afier  quick  returns  to  ingenious  toil, 
and  breathless  spurrings  along  short  cuts  to  the  goal,  which  we  see  every- 
where around  us,  from  the  Mechanics'  Institute  to  the  Stock  Market, — be- 
ginning in  education  with  the  primers  of  infancy — deluging  us  with  "  Phi- 
losophies for  the  Million,"  and  "  Sciences  made  Easy  ";  characterizing  the 
books  of  our  writers,  the  speeches  of  our  statesmen,  no  less  than  the  deal- 
ings of  our  speculators,  setm,  I  confess,  to  me,  to  constitute  a  very  diseased 
and  very  general  symptom  of  the  times.  I  hold  that  the  greatest  friend  to 
man  is  labor  ;  that  knowledge  without  toil,  if  possible,  were  worthless  ;  that 
toil  in  pursuit  of  knowledge  is  the  best  knowledge  we  can  attain  ;  that  the 
continuous  effort  for  fame  is  nobler  than  fame  itself ;  that  it  is  not  wealth 
suddenly  acquired  which  is  deserving  of  homage,  but  the  virtues  which  a 
man  exercises  in  the  slow  pursuit  of  wealth — the  abilities  so  called  forth,  the 
self-denials  so  imposed  :  in  a  word,  that  Labor  and  Patience  are  the  true 
schoolmasters  on  earth.  While  occupied  with  these  ideas  and  this  belief, 
whether  right  or  wrong,  and  slowly  convinced  that  it  was  only  in  that  species 
of  composition  with  which  I  was  most  familiar  that  I  could  work  out  some 
portion  of  the  plan  that  I  began  to  contemplate,  I  became  acquainted  with 
the  histories  of  two  criminals,  existing  in  our  own  age  ;  so  remarkable, 
whether  from  the  extent  and  darkness  of  the  guilt  committed — whether  from 

iv 


PREFACE    TO    THE    FIRST    EDITION.  V 

the  glittering  accomplishments  and  lively  temper  of  the  one,  the  profound 
knowledge  and  intellectual  capacities  of  the  other — that  the  examination  and 
analysis  of  characters  so  perverted  became  a  study  full  of  intense,  if  gloomy 
interest. 

In  these  persons  theie  appear  to  have  been  as  few  redeemable  points  as 
can  be  found  in  Human  Nature,  so  far  as  such  poinis  may  be  traced  in  the 
kindly  instincts  and  generous  passions  which  do  sometimes  accompany  the 
perpetration  of  great  crimes,  and  without  excusing  the  individual,  vindicate 
the  species.  Yet,  on  the  other  hand,  their  sanguinary  wickedness  was  not 
the  dull  ferocity  of  brutes  ;  it  was  accompanied  with  instruction  and  cul- 
ture :  nay,  it  seemed  to  me,  on  studying  their  lives,  and  pondering  over 
their  own  letters,  that  through  their  cultivation  itself  we  could  arrive  at  the 
secret  of  the  ruthless  and  atrocious  pre-eminence  in  evil  these  Children  of 
Night  had  attained — that  Here  the  monster  vanished  into  the  mortal,  and 
the  phenomena  that  seemed  aberrations  from  nature  were  explained. 

I  could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  reducing  to  a  tale  the  materials  which  had 
so  engrossed  my  interest  and  tasked  my  inquiries.  And  in  this  attempt  va- 
rious incidental  oppoftunies  have  occurred,  if  not  of  completely  carrying  out, 
still  of  incidentally  illustrating,  my  earlier  design  ;  of  showing  the  influence 
of  Mammon  upon  our  most  secret  selves  ;  of  reproving  the  impatience 
which  is  engendered  by  a  civilization,  that  with  much  of  the  good  brings  all 
the  evils  of  competition  ;  and  of  tracing  throughout  all  the  influences  of 
farly  household  life  upon  our  subsequent  conduct  and  career.  In  such  inci- 
dental hearings  the  moral  may  doubtless  be  more  obvious  than  in  the  delin- 
eation of  the  darker  and-  rarer  crime  which  forms  the  staple  of  my  narrative. 
For  in  ex'raordinary  guilt  we  are  slow  to  recognize  ordinary  warnings  ;  we 
say  to  the  peaceful  conscience,  "  This  concerns  thee  not  !  " — whereas  at  each 
instance  of  familiar  fault  and  commonplace  error  we  own  a  direct  and  sensi- 
ble admonition.  Yet  in  the  portraiture  of  gigantic  crime  poets  have  rightly 
found  their  sphere,  and  fulfilled  their  destiny,  of  teachers.  Those  terrible 
truths  which  appal  us  in  the  guilt  of  Macbeth,  or  the  villany  of  lago,  have 
their  moral  uses  not  less  than  the  popular  infirmities  of  Tom  Jones,  or  the 
everyday  hypocrisy  of  Blifil. 

Incredible  as  it  may  seem,  the  crimes  herein  related  took  place  within  the 
last  seventeen  years,  There  has  been  no  exaggeration  as  to  their  extent,  no 
great  departure  from  their  details — the  means  employed,  even  that  which 
seems  most  far-fetched  (the  instrument  of  the  poisoned  ring),  have  their 
foundation  in  literal  facts.  •  Nor  have  I  much  altered  the  social  position  of 
the  criminals,-  nor  in  the  least  over-rated  their  attainments  and  intelligence. 
In  those  more  salient  essentials,  which  will  most,  perhaps,  provoke  the  Read- 
er's incredulous  wonder,  I  narrate  a  history,  not  invent  a  fiction.*  All  that 
romance  which  our  own  time  affords  is  not  more  the  romance  than  the  phi- 
losophy of  the  time.  Tragedy  never  quits  the  world — it  surrounds  us  every- 
where. We  have  but  to  look,  wakeful  and  vigilant,  abroad,  and  from  the 
age  of  Pelops  to  that  of  Borgia,  the  same  crimes,  though  under  different 
garbs,  will  stalk  on  our  paths.  Each  age  comprehends  in  itself  specimens 
of  every  virtue  and  every  vice  which  has  ever  inspired  our  love  or  moved  our 
horror. 

LONDON,  November  i,  1846. 

*  These  criminals  were  not,  however,  in  actual  life,  as  in  the  novel,  intimates  and  accom- 
plices. Their  crimes  were  of  similar  character,  effected  by  similar  agencies,  and  committed 
at  dates  which  embrace  their  several  careers  of  guilt  within  the  same  peried :  but  I  h»v$ 
no  authority  to  suppose  that  th$  one  was  known  to  the  other-. 


CONTENTS. 


PART    THE    FIRST. 


I. 

II. 

III. 

IV. 

V. 

VI. 

VII. 

VIII. 

IX. 

X. 


I. 

II. 

III. 

IV. 

V. 

VI. 

VII. 

VIII. 

IX. 

X. 

XL 

XII. 

XIII. 

XIV. 

XV. 

XVI. 

XVII. 

XVIII. 

XIX. 

XX. 

XXI. 

XXII. 

XXIII. 

XXIV. 

XXV. 

XXVI. 

XXVII. 

XXVIII. 


PROLOGUE  TO  PART  THE  FIRST,        ,        .        . 
A  FAMILY  GROUP,        .        .        •'..••        •        • 
LUCRETIA,       ....... 

CONFERENCES, 

GUY'S  OAK 

HOUSEHOLD  TREASON, 

THE  WILL 

THE  ENGAGEMENT,      ...... 

THE  DISCOVERY 

A  SOUL  WITHOUT  HOPE, 

THE  RECONCILIATION  BETWEEN  FATHER  AND  SON, 
EPILOGUE  TO  PART  THE  FIRST,    .... 


PART  THE   SECOND. 


PROLOGUE  TO  PART  THE  SECOND 

THE  CORONATION, 

LOVE  AT  FIRST  SIGHT, 

EARLY  TRAINING  FOR  AN  UPRIGHT  GENTLEMAN, 

JOHN  ARDWORTH, . 

THE  WEAVERS  AND  THE  WOOF 

THE  LAWYER  AND  THE  BODY-SNATCHER,        . 

THE  RAPE  OF  THE  MATTRESS 

PERCIVAL  VISITS  LUCRETIA,     ..... 

THE  ROSE  BENEATH  THE  UPAS, 

THE  RATTLE  OF  THE  SNAKE, 

LOVE  AND  INNOCENCE,         ...... 

SUDDEN  CELEBRITY  AND  PATIENT  HOPE,         . 

THE  Loss  OF  THE  CROSSING 

NEWS  FROM  GRABMAN, 

VARIETIES 

THE  INVITATION  TO  LAUGHTON 

THE  WAKING  OF  THE  SERPENT 

RETROSPECT, 

MR.  GRABMAN'S  ADVENTURES,     ..... 
MORE  OF  MRS.  JOPLIN,    ...... 

BECK'S  DISCOVERY 

THE  TAPESTRY  CHAMBER,       ..... 
THE  SHADES  ON  THE  DIAL,         ..... 
MURDER,  TOWARDS  HIS  DESIGN,  MOVES  LIKE  A  GHOST, 

THE  MESSENGER  SPEEDS, 

THE  SPY  FLIES 

LUCRETIA  REGAINS  HER  SON 

THE  LOTS  VANISH  WITHIN  THE  URN,          . 

EPILOGUE  TO  PART  THE  SECOND 

A  WORD  TO  THE  PUBLIC,  ,        • 

vi 


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230 
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255 
265 
269 
272 
281 
286 
290 
301 
306 

3" 
328 
334 
337 
345 
348 
358 
360 
364 
370 
373 
378 
385 


LUCRETIA; 

OR, 

THE  CHILDREN  OF  NIGHT. 
PART  THE  FIRST. 

PROLOGUE  TO  PART  THE  FIRST. 

IN  an  apartment  at  Paris,  one  morning  during  the  Reign  of 
Terror,  a  man,  whose  age  might  be  somewhat  under  thirty, 
sate  before  a  table  covered  with  papers,  arranged  and  labelled 
with  the  methodical  precision  of  a  mind  fond  of  order  and 
habituated  to  business.  Behind  him  rose  a  tall  bookcase,  sur- 
mounted with  a  bust  of  Robespierre,  and  the  shelves  were  filled 
chiefly  with  works  of  a  scientific  character ;  amongst  which  the 
greater  number  were  on  chemistry  and  medicine.  There  were 
to  be  seen  also  many  rare  books  on  alchemy,  the  great  Italian 
historians,  some  English  philosophical  treatises,  and  a  few  MSS. 
in  Arabic.  The  absence  from  this  collection  of  the  stormy  liter- 
ature of  the  day  seemed  to  denote  that  the  owner  was  a  quiet 
student  living  apart  from  the  strife  and  passions  of  the  Revolu- 
tion. This  supposition  was,  however,  disproved  by  certain 
papers  on  the  table,  which  were  formally  and  laconically  la- 
belled "Reports  on  Lyons,"  and  by  packets  of  letters  in  the 
handwritings  of  Robespierre  and  Couthon.  Atone  of  the  win- 
dows a  young  boy  was  earnestly  engaged  in  some  occupation, 
which  appeared  to  excite  the  curiosity  of  the  person  just  des- 
cribed; for  this  last,  after  examining  the  child's  movements  for 
a  few  moments  with  a  silent  scrutiny  that  betrayed  but  little  of 
the  half-complacent,  half-melancholy  affection  with  which  busy 
man  is  apt  to  regard  idle  childhood,  rose  noiselessly  from  his 
seat,  approached  the  boy,  and  looked  over  his  shoulder  unob- 
served. In  a  crevice  of  the  wood  by  the  window  a  huge  black 
spider  had  formed  his  web;  the  child  had  just  discovered  an- 
other spider,  and  placed  it  in  the  meshes ;  he  was  watching  the 


8  LUCRETIA. 

result  of  his  operations.  The  intrusive  spider  stood  motionless 
in  the  midst  of  the  web,  as  if  fascinated.  The  rightful  posses- 
sor was  also  quiescent ;  but  a  very  fine  ear  might  have  caught  a 
low  humming  sound,  which  probably  augured  no  hospitable 
intentions  to  the  invader.  Anon,  the  stranger  insect  seemed 
suddenly  to  awake  from  its  amaze;  it  evinced  alarm,  and 
turned  to  fly ;  the  huge  spider  darted  forward — the  boy  uttered 
a  chuckle  of  delight.  The  man's  pale  lip  curled  into  a  sinister 
sneer,  and  he  glided  back  to  his  seat.  There,  leaning  his  face 
on  his  hand,  he  continued  to  contemplate  the  child.  That 
child  might  have  furnished  to  an  artist  a  fitting  subject  for  fair 
and  blooming  infancy.  His  light  hair,  tinged  deeply,  it  is 
true,  with  red,  hung  in  sleek  and  glittering  abundance  down 
his  neck  and  shoulders.  His  features,  seen  in  profile,  were 
delicately  and  almost  femininely  proportioned ;  health  glowed 
on  his  cheek,  and  his  form,  slight  though  it  was,  gave  promise 
of  singular  activity  and  vigor.  His  dress  was  fantastic,  and 
betrayed  the  taste  of  some  fondly  foolish  mother ;  but  the  fine 
linen,  trimmed  with  lace,  was  rumpled  and  stained,  the  velvet 
jacket  unbrushed,  the  shoes  soiled  with  dust;  slight  tokens  these 
of  neglect,  but  serving  to  show  that  the  foolish  fondness  which 
had  invented  the  dress  had  not  of  late  presided  over  the  toilet. 

"Child,"  said  the  man,  first  in  French;  and  observing  that 
the  boy  heeded  him  not:  "Child,"  he  repeated  in  English, 
which  he  spoke  well,  though  with  a  foreign  accent — "child!" 

The  boy  turned  quickly. 

"Has  the  great  spider  devoured  the  small  one?" 

"No,  sir,"  said  the  boy,  coloring;  "the  small  one  has  had 
the  best  of  it."  The  tone  and  heightened  complexion  of  the 
child  seemed  to  give  meaning  to  his  words ;  at  least  so  the 
man  thought,  for  a  slight  frown  passed  over  his  high,  thought- 
ful brow. 

"Spiders,  then,"  he  said,  after  a  short  pause,  "are  different 
from  men;  with  us,  the  small  do  not  get  the  better  of  the 
great.  Hum!  do  you  still  miss  your  mother?" 

"Oh,  yes!"  and  the  boy  advanced  eagerly  to  the  table. 

"Well,  you  will  see  her  once  again." 

"When?" 

The  man  looked  towards  a  clock  on  the  mantel-piece:  "Be- 
fore that  clock  strikes.  Now,  go  back  to  your  spiders."  The 
child  looked  irresolute  and  disinclined  to  obey ;  but  a  stern 
and  terrible  expression  gathered  slowly  over  the  man's  face ; 
and  the  boy,  growing  pale  as  he  remarked  it,  crept  back  to 
the  window. 


LUCRET1A.  9 

The  father,  for  such  was  the  relation  the  owner  of  the  room 
bore  to  the  child,  drew  paper  and  ink  towards  him,  and  wrote 
for  some  minutes  rapidly.  Then  starting  up,  he  glanced  at 
the  clock,  took  his  hat  and  cloak,  which  lay  on  a  chair  beside, 
drew  up  the  collar  of  the  mantle  till  it  almost  concealed  his 
countenance,  and  said:  "Now,  boy,  come  with  me;  I  have 
promised  to  show  you  an  execution.  I  am  going  to  keep  my 
promise.  Come!" 

The  boy  clapped  his  hands  with  joy ;  and  you  might  see 
then,  child  as  he  was,  that  those  fair  features  were  capable  of 
a  cruel  and  ferocious  expression.  The  character  of  the  whole 
face  changed.  He  caught  up  his  gay  cap  and  plume,  and 
followed  his  father  into  the  streets. 

Silently  the  two  took  their  way  toward  the  Barrtire  du  Trdne. 
At  a  distance  they  saw  the  crowd  growing  thick  and  dense,  as 
throng  after  throng  hurried  past  them,  and  the  dreadful  guillo- 
tine rose  high  in  the  light  blue  air.  As  they  came  into  the 
skirts  of  the  mob,  the  father,  for  the  first  time,  took  the  child's 
hand.  "I  must  get  you  a  good  place  for  the  show,"  he  said, 
with  a  quiet  smile. 

There  was  something  in  the  grave,  staid,  courteous,  yet 
haughty  bearing  of  the  man  that  made  the  crowd  give  way  as 
he  passed.  They  got  near  the  dismal  scene,  and  obtained  en- 
trance into  a  wagon  already  crowded  with  eager  spectators. 

And  now  they  heard  at  a  distance  the  harsh  and  lumbering 
roll  of  the  tumbril  that  bore  the  victims,  and  the  tramp  of  the 
horses  which  guarded  the  procession  of  death.  The  boy's 
whole  attention  was  absorbed  in  expectation  of  the  spectacle, 
and  his  ear  was,  perhaps,  less  accustomed  to  French,  though 
born  and  reared  in  France,  than  to  the  language  of  his  moth- 
er's lips — and  she  was  English :  thus  he  did  not  hear  or  heed 
certain  observations  of  the  bystanders,  which  made  his  father's 
cheek  grow  paler. 

"What  is  the  batch  to-day?"  quoth  a  butcher,  in  the  wagon. 

"Scarce  worth  the  baking — only  two,  but  one,  they  say,  is 
an  aristocrat — a  ci-devant  marquis,"  answered  a  carpenter. 

"Ah!  a  marquis! — Bon!     And  the  other?" 

"Only  a  dancer;  but  a  pretty  one,  it  is  true:  I  could  pity 
her  but  she  is  English."  And  as  he  pronounced  the  last  word, 
with  a  tone  of  inexpressible  contempt,  the  butcher  spat,  as  if 
in  nausea. 

"Mortdiablc!  a  spy  of  Pitt's,  no  doubt.  What  did  they 
discover?' ' 

A  man  better  dressed  than  the  rest  turned   round  with  3 


10  LUCRETIA. 

smile,  and  answered:  "Nothing  worse  than  a  lover,  I  believe; 
but  that  lover  was  a  proscrit.  The  ci-devant  marquis  was 
caught  disguised  in  her  apartment.  She  betrayed  for  him  a 
good  easy  friend  of  the  people,  who  had  long  loved  her,  and 
revenge  is  sweet." 

The  man  whom  we  have  accompanied,  nervously  twitched  up 
the  collar  of  his  cloak,  and  his  compressed  lips  told  that  he  felt 
the  anguish  of  the  laugh  that  circled  round  him. 

"They  are  coming!  There  they  are!"  cried  the  boy  in 
ecstatic  excitement. 

"That's  the  way  to  bring  up  citizens,"  said  the  butcher,  pat- 
ting the  child's  shoulder,  and  opening  a  still  better  view  for 
him  at  the  edge  of  the  wagon. 

The  crowd  now  abruptly  gave  way.  The  tumbril  was  in 
sight.  A  man,  young  and  handsome,  standing  erect  and  with 
folded  arms  in  the  fatal  vehicle,  looked  along  the  mob  with  an 
eye  of  careless  scorn.  Though  he  wore  the  dress  of  a  work- 
man, the  most  unpractised  glance  could  detect,  in  his  mien  and 
bearing,  one  of  the  hated  noblesse,  whose  characteristics  came 
out  even  more  forcibly  at  the  hour  of  death.  On  the  lip  was 
that  smile  of  gay  and  insolent  levity ;  on  the  brow  that  gallant 
if  reckless  contempt  of  physical  danger,  which  had  signalized 
the  hero-coxcombs  of  the  old  regime.  Even  the  rude  dress 
was  worn  with  a  certain  air  of  foppery,  and  the  bright  hair  was 
carefully  adjusted  as  if  for  the  holiday  of  the  headsman.  As 
the  eyes  of  the  young  noble  wandered  over  the  fierce  faces  of 
that  horrible  assembly,  while  a  roar  of  hideous  triumph  ans- 
wered the  look,  in  which  for  the  last  time  the  gentilhomme 
spoke  his  scorn  of  the  canaille^  the  child's  father  lowered  the 
collar  of  his  cloak,  and  slowly  raised  his  hat  from  his  brow. 
The  eye  of  the  marquis  rested  upon  the  countenance  thus 
abruptly  shown  to  him,  and  which  suddenly  became  individu- 
alized amongst  the  crowd — that  eye  instantly  lost  its  calm  con- 
tempt. A  shudder  passed  visibly  over  his  frame,  and  his  cheek 
grew  blanched  with  terror.  The  mob  saw  the  change,  but  not 
the  cause,  and  loud  and  louder  rose  their  triumphant  yell.  The 
sound  recalled  the  pride  of  the  young  noble ;  he  started,  lifted 
his  crest  erect,  and  sought  again  to  meet  the  look  which  had 
appalled  him.  But  he  could  no  longer  single  it  but  among  the 
crowd.  Hat  and  cloak  once  more  hid  the  face  of  the  foe,  and 
crowds  of  eager  heads  intercepted  the  view.  The  young  mar- 
quis's lips  muttered,  he  bent  down,  and  then  the  crowd  caught 
sight  of  his  companion,  who  was  being  lifted  up  from  the  bot- 
tom of  the  tumbril,  where  she  had  flung  herself  in  horror  and 


LuCkETIA.  tf 

despair.  The  crowd  grew  still  in  a  moment,  as  the  pale  face 
of  one  familiar  to  most  of  them  turned  wildly  from  place  to 
place  in  the  dreadful  scene,  vainly  and  madly  through  its 
silence  imploring  life  and  pity.  How  often  had  the  sight  of 
that  face,  not  then  pale  and  haggard,  but  wreathed  with  rosy 
smiles,  sufficed  to  draw  the  applause  of  the  crowded  theatre ; 
how,  then,  had  those  breasts,  now  fevered  by  the  thirst  of 
blood,  held  hearts  spellbound  by  the  airy  movements  of  that 
exquisite  form  writhing  now  in  no  stage-mime  agony !  Play- 
thing of  the  city — minion  to  the  light  amusement  of  the  hour — 
frail  child  of  Cytherea  and  the  Graces,  what  relentless  fate  has 
conducted  thee  to  the  shambles?  Butterfly  of  the  summer, 
why  should  a  nation  rise  to  break  thee  upon  the  wheel?  A 
sense  of  the  mockery  of  such  an  execution,  of  the  horrible  bur- 
lesque that  would  sacrifice  to  the  necessities  of  a  mighty  people 
so  slight  an  offering,  made  itself  felt  among  the  crowd.  There 
was  a  low  murmur  of  shame  and  indignation.  The  dangerous 
sympathy  of  the  mob  was  perceived  by  the  officer  in  attend- 
ance. Hastily  he  made  the  sign  to  the  headsman,  and,  as  he 
did  so,  a  child's  cry  was  heard  in  the  English  tongue: 
"Mother — mother!"  The  father's  hand  grasped  the  child's 
arm,  with  an  iron  pressure;  the  crowd  swam  before  the  boy's 
eyes;  the  air  seemed  to  stifle  him,  and  become  blood-red; 
only  through  the  hum,  and  the  tramp,  and  the  roll  of  the 
drums,  he  heard  a  low  voice  hiss  in  his  ear:  "Learn  how  they 
perish  who  betray  me!" 

As  the  father  said  these  words,  again  his  face  was  bare,  and 
the  woman,  whose  ear,  amidst  the  dull  insanity  of  fear,  had 
caught  the  cry  of  her  child's  voice,  saw  that  face,  and  fell  back 
insensible  in  the  arms  of  the  headsman. 


CHAPTER  I. 

A    FAMILY    GROUP. 

ONE  July  evening  at  the  commencement  of  the  present  cen- 
tury several  persons  were  somewhat  picturesquely  grouped 
along  an  old-fashioned  terrace,  which  skirted  the  garden  side  of 
a  manor-house  that  had  considerable  pretensions  to  baronial 
dignity.  The  architecture  was  of  the  most  enriched  and  elab- 
orate style  belonging  to  the  reign  of  James  the  First:  the 
porch,  opening  on  the  terrace,  with  its  mullion  window  above, 
was  encased  with  pilasters  and  reliefs,  at  once  ornamental  and 
massive;  and  the  large  square  tower  in  which  it  was  placed  was 


12  LUCRETIA. 

surmounted  by  a  stone  falcon,  whose  talons  griped  fiercely  a 
scutcheon  blazoned  with  the  five-pointed  stars  which  heralds 
recognize  as  the  arms  of  St.  John.  On  either  side  this  tower 
extended  long  wings,  the  dark  brickwork  of  which  was  relieved 
with  noble  stone  casements  and  carved  pediments;  the  high 
roof  was  partially  concealed  by  a  balustrade,  perforated  not 
inelegantly  into  arabesque  designs;  and  what  architects  call 
'the  sky  line'  was  broken  with  imposing  effect  by  tall  chimney 
shafts,  of  various  form  and  fashion.  These  wings  terminated 
in  angular  towers,  similar  to  the  centre,  though  kept  duly  sub- 
ordinate to  it  both  in  size  and  decoration,  and  crowned  with 
stone  cupolas.  A  low  balustrade,  of  later  date  than  that  which 
adorned  the  roof,  relieved  by  vases  and  statues,  bordered  the 
terrace,  from  which  a  double  flight  of  steps  descended  to  a 
smooth  lawn,  intersected  by  broad  gravel  walks,  shadowed  by 
vast  and  stately  cedars,  and  gently  and  gradually  mingling  with 
the  wilder  scenery  of  the  park,  from  which  it  was  only  divided 
by  a  ha-ha. 

Upon  the  terrace,  and  under  cover  of  a  temporary  awning, 
sate  the  owner,  Sir  Miles  St.  John  of  Laughton,  a  comely  old 
man,  dressed  with  faithful  precision  to  the  costume  which  he 
had  been  taught  to  consider  appropriate  to  his  rank  of  gentle- 
man, and  which  was  not  yet  wholly  obsolete  and  eccentric. 
His  hair,  still  thick  and  luxuriant,  was  carefully  powdered, 
and  collected  into  a  club  behind.  His  nether  man  attired  in 
gray  breeches  and  pearl-colored  silk  stockings;  his  vest  of  silk, 
opening  wide  at  the  breast,  and  showing  a  profusion  of  frill, 
slightly  sprinkled  with  the  pulvilio  of  his  'favorite  martinique; 
his  three-cornered  hat,  placed  on  a  stool  at  his  side,  with  a 
gold-headed  crutch  cane, — hat  made  rather  to  be  carried  in 
the  hand  than  worn  on  the  head — the  diamond  in  his  shirt- 
breast,  the  diamond  on  his  finger,  the  ruffles  at  his  wrist, — all 
bespoke  the  gallant,  who  had  chatted  with  Lord  Chesterfield, 
and  supped  with  Mrs.  Clive.  On  a  table  before  him  were 
placed  two  or  three  decanters  of  wine,  the  fruits  of  the  season, 
an  enamelled  snuff-box,  in  which  was  set  the  portrait  of  a 
female — perhaps  the  Chloe  or  Phillis  of  his  early  love-ditties — 
a  lighted  taper,  a  small  china  jar  containing  tobacco,  and  three 
or  four  pipes  of  homely  clay,  for  cherry-sticks  -and  meer- 
schaums were  not  then  in  fashion;  and  Sir  Miles  St.  John, 
once  a  gay  and  sparkling  beau,  now  a  popular  country  gentle- 
man, great  at  county  meetings  and  sheep -shearing  festivals, 
had  taken  to  smoking,  as  in  harmony  with  his  bucolic  trans- 
formation ;  an  old  setter  lay  dozing  at  his  feet ;  a  small  span- 


LttCRETiA.  13 

iel — old,  too — was  sauntering  lazily  in  the  immediate  neighbor- 
hood, looking  gravely  out  for  such  stray  bits  of  biscuit  as  had 
been  thrown  forth  to  provoke  him  to  exercise,  and  which  hith- 
erto had  escaped  his  attention.  Half  seated,  half  reclined  on 
the  balustrade,  apart  from  the  Baronet,  but  within  reach  of  his 
conversation,  lolled  a  man  in  the  prime  of  life,  with  an  air  of 
unmistakable  and  sovereign  elegance  and  distinction.  Mr. 
Vernon  was  a  guest  from  London:  and  the  London  man— the 
man  of  clubs,  and  dinners,  and  routs,  of  noon  loungings  through 
Bond  Street,  and  nights  spent  with  the  Prince  of  Wales — 
seemed  stamped  not  more  upon  the  careful  carelessness  of  his 
dress,  and  upon  the  worn  expression  of  his  delicate  features, 
than  upon  the  listless  ennui  which,  characterizing  both  his  face 
and  attitude,  appeared  to  take  pity  on  himself  for  having  been 
entrapped  into  the  country. 

Yet  we  should  convey  an  erroneous  impression  of  Mr.  Ver- 
non if  we  designed,  by  the  words  "listless  ennui,"  to  depict  the 
slumbrous  insipidity  of  more  modern  affectation ;  it  was  not  the 
ennui  of  a  man  to  whom  ennui  is  habitual ;  it  was  rather  the 
indolent  prostration  that  fills  up  the  intervals  of  excitement. 
At  that  day  the  word  '  "blase" ' '  was  unknown ;  men  had  not 
enough  sentiment  for  satiety.  There  was  a  kind  of  Bacchana- 
lian fury  in  the  life  led  by  those  leaders  of  fashion  among 
whom  Mr.  Vernon  was  not  the  least  distinguished :  it  was  a 
day  of  deep  drinking,  of  high  play,  of  jovial,  reckless  dissipa- 
tion, of  strong  appetite  for  fun  and  riot,  of  four-in-hand  coach- 
manship, of  prize-fighting,  of  a  strange  sort  of  barbarous  man- 
liness, that  strained  every  nerve  of  the  constitution ;  a  race  of 
life,  in  which  three-fourths  of  the  competitors  died  half-way  in 
the  hippodrome.  What  is  now  the  Dandy  was  then  the  Buck ; 
and  something  of  the  Buck,  though  subdued  by  a  chaster  taste 
than  fell  to  the  ordinary  members  of  his  class,  was  apparent  in 
Mr.  Vernon's  costume  as  well  as  air.  Intricate  folds  of  muslin, 
arranged  in  prodigious  bows  and  ends,  formed  the  cravat, 
which  Brummell  had  not  yet  arisen  to  reform ;  his  hat  of  a 
very  peculiar  shape,  low  at  the  crown  and  broad  at  the  brim, 
was  worn  with  an  air  of  devil-me-care  defiance;  his  watch- 
chain,  garnished  with  a  profusion  of  rings  and  seals,  hung  low 
from  his  white  waistcoat ;  and  the  adaptation  of  his  nankin 
inexpressibles  to  his  well-shaped  limbs  was  a  masterpiece  of  art. 
His  whole  dress  and  air  was  not  what  could  properly  be  called 
foppish — it  was  rather  what  at  that  time  was  called  'rakish.' 
Few  could  so  closely  approach  vulgarity  without  being  vulgar: 
of  that  privileged  few,  Mr.  Vernon  was  one  of  the  elect. 


14  LlJCRETlA. 

Further  on,  and  near  the  steps  descending  into  the  garden, 
stood  a  man  in  an  attitude  of  profound  abstraction ;  his  arms 
folded,  his  eyes  bent  on  the  ground,  his  brows  slightly  con- 
tracted ;  his  dress  was  a  plain  black  surtout,  and  pantaloons  of 
the  same  color;  something  both  in  the  fashion  of  the  dress, 
and  still  more  in  the  face  of  the  man,  bespoke  the  foreigner. 
Sir  Miles  St.  John  was  an  accomplished  person  for  that  time 
of  day;  he  had  made  the  grand  tour;  he  had  bought  pictures 
and  statues ;  he  spoke  and  wrote  well  in  the  modern  languages ; 
and  being  rich,  hospitable,  social,  and  not  averse  from  the 
reputation  of  a  patron,  he  had  opened  his  house  freely  to  the 
host  of  emigrants  whom  the  French  Revolution  had  driven  to 
our  coasts.  Olivier  Dalibard,  a  man  of  considerable  learning 
and  rare  scientific  attainments,  had  been  tutor  in  the  house  of 

the  Marquis  de  G ,  a  French  nobleman  known  many  years 

before  to  the  old  Baronet.  The  Marquis  and  his  family  had 
been  among  the  first  emigres  at  the  outbreak  of  the  Revolu- 
tion. The  tutor  had  remained  behind ;  for  at  that  time  no 
danger  appeared  to  threaten  those  who  pretended  to  no  other 
aristocracy  than  that  of  letters.  Contrary,  as  he  said,  with  re- 
pentant modesty,  to  his  own  inclinations,  he  had  been  com- 
pelled, not  only  for  his  own  safety,  but  for  that  of  his  friends, 
to  take  some  part  in  the  subsequent  events  of  the  Revolution — 
a  part  far  from  sincere,  though  so  well  had  he  simulated  the 
patriot  that  he  had  won  the  personal  favor  and  protection  of 
Robespierre;  nor  till  the  fall  of  that  virtuous  exterminator  had 
he  withdrawn  from  the  game  of  politics  and  effected  in  dis- 
guise his  escape  to  England.  As,  whether  from  kindly  or 
other  motives,  he  had  employed  the  power  of  his  position  of 
Robespierre  to  save  certain  noble  heads  from  the  guillotine — 

amongst  others,  the  two  brothers  of  the  Marquis  de  G ,  he 

was  received  with  grateful  welcome  by  his  former  patrons,  who 
readily  pardoned  his  career  of  Jacobinism,  from  their  belief  in 
his  excuses,  and  their  obligations  to  the  services  which  that 
very  career  had  enabled  him  to  render  to  their  kindred.  Oli- 
yier  Dalibard  had  accompanied  the  Marquis  and  his  family  in 
one  of  the  frequent  visits  they  paid  to  Laughton;  and  when  the 
Marquis  finally  quitted  England,  and  fixed  his  refuge  at  Vienna, 
with  some  connections  of  his  wife's,  he  felt  a  lively  satisfaction  at 
the  thought  of  leaving  his  friend  honorably,  if  unambitiously, 
provided  for,  as  secretary  and  librarian  to  Sir  Miles  St.  John. 
In  fact,  the  scholar,  who  possessed  considerable  powers  of  fas- 
cination, had  won  no  less  favor  with  the  English  baronet  than 
he  had  with  the  French  dictator.  He  played  well  both  at  chess 


LtfCRETlA.  i$ 

and  backgammon;  he  was  an  extraordinary  accountant;  he 
had  a  variety  of  information  upon  all  points,  that  rendered  him 
more  convenient  than  any  cyclopaedia  in  Sir  Miles's  library; 
and  as  he  spoke  both  English  and  Italian  with  a  correctness 
and  fluency  extremely  rare  in  a  Frenchman,  he  was  of  consider- 
able service  in  teaching  languages  to  (as  well  as  directing  the 
general  literary  education  of)  Sir  Miles's  favorite  niece,  whom 
we  shall  take  an  early  opportunity  to  describe  at  length. 

Nevertheless,  there  had  been  one  serious  obstacle  to  Dali- 
bard's  acceptance  of  the  appointment  offered  to  him  by  Sir 
Miles.  Dalibard  had  under  his  charge  a  young  orphan  boy  of 
some  ten  or  twelve  years  old — a  boy  whom  Sir  Miles  was  not 
long  in  suspecting  to  be  the  scholar's  son.  This  child  had  come 
from  France  with  Dalibard,  and  (while  the  Marquis's  family 
were  in  London)  remained  under  the  eye  and  care  of  his  guar- 
dian or  father,  whichever  was  the  true  connection  between  the 
two.  But  this  superintendence  became  impossible  if  Dalibard 
settled  in  Hampshire  with  Sir  Miles  St.  John  and  the  boy  re- 
mained in  London ;  nor,  though  the  generous  old  gentleman 
offered  to  pay  for  the  child's  schooling,  would  Dalibard  con- 
sent to  part  with  him.  At  last,  the  matter  was  arranged :  the 
boy  was  invited  to  Laughton  on  a  visit,  and  was  so  lively,  yet 
so  well  mannered,  that  he  became  a  favorite,  and  was  now  fairly 
quartered  in  the  house  with  his  reputed  father:  and  not  to 
make  an  unnecessary  mystery  of  this  connection,  such  was  in 
truth  the  relationship  between  Olivier  Dalibard  and  Honore 
Gabriel  Varney — a  name  significant  of  the  'double  and  illegiti- 
mate origin — a  French  father,  an  English  mother;  dropping, 
however,  the  purely  French  appellation  of  Honore\  he  went 
familiarly  by  that  of  Gabriel.  Half-way  down  the  steps  stood 
the  lad,  pencil  and  tablet  in  hand,  sketching.  Let  us  look  over 
his  shoulder:  it  is  his  father's  likeness — a  countenance  in  itself 
not  very  remarkable  at  the  first  glance,  for  the  features  were 
small,  but  when  examined,  it  was  one  that  most  persons,  wom- 
en especially,  would  have  pronounced  handsome,  and  to 
which  none  could  deny  the  higher  praise  of  thought  and  intel- 
lect. A  native  of  Provence,  with  some  Italian  blood  in  his 
veins — for  his  grandfather,  a  merchant  of  Marseilles,  had  mar- 
ried into  a  Florentine  family  settled  at  Leghorn — the  dark 
complexion,  common  with  those  in  the  south,  had  been  sub- 
dued, probably  by  the  habits  of  the  student,  into  a  bronzed 
and  steadfast  paleness,  which  seemed  almost  fair  by  the  con- 
trast of  the  dark  hair  which  he  wore  unpowdered,  and  the  still 
darker  brows  which  hung  thick  and  prominent  over  clear  gray 


l6  LtiCRETIA. 

eyes.  Compared  with  the  features,  the  skull  was  dispropor- 
tionally  large,  both  behind  and  before ;  and  a  physiognomist 
would  have  drawn  conclusions  more  favorable  to  the  power 
than  the  tenderness  of  the  Proven£ars  character,  from  the  com- 
pact closeness  of  the  lips  and  the  breadth  and  massiveness  of  the 
iron  jaw.  But  the  son's  sketch  exaggerated  every  feature,  and 
gave  to  the  expression  a  malignant  and  terrible  irony,  not  now, 
at  least,  apparent  in  the  quiet  and  meditative  aspect.  Gabriel 
himself,  as  he  stood,  would  have  been  a  more  tempting  study 
to  many  an  artist.  It  is  true  that  he  was  small  for  his  years; 
but  his  frame  had  a  vigor  in  its  light  proportions  which  came 
from  a  premature  and  almost  adolescent  symmetry  of  shape 
and  muscular  development.  The  countenance,  however,  had 
much  of  effeminate  beauty ;  the  long  hair  reached  the  shoul- 
ders, but  did  not  curl;  straight,  fine,  and  glossy  as  a  girl's, 
and,  in  color,  of  the  pale  auburn,  tinged  with  red,  which  rarely 
alters  in  hue  as  childhood  matures  to  man ;  the  complexion 
was  dazzlingly  clear  and  fair.  Nevertheless,  there  was  some- 
thing so  hard  in  the  lip,  so  bold,  though  not  open,  in  the  brow, 
that  the  girlishness  of  complexion,  and  even  of  outline,  could 
not  leave,  on  the  whole,  an  impression  of  effeminacy.  All  the 
hereditary  keenness  and  intelligence  were  stamped  upon  his 
face  at  that  moment ;  but  the  expression  had  also  a  large  share 
of  that  very  irony  and  malice  which  he  had  conveyed  to  his  cari- 
cature. The  drawing  itself  was  wonderfully  vigorous  and  dis- 
tinct, showing  great  artistic  promise,  and  done  with  the  rapid- 
ity and  ease  which'  betrayed  practice.  Suddenly  his  father 
turned,  and  with  as  sudden  a  quickness  the  boy  concealed  his 
tablet  in  his  vest;  and  the  sinister  expression  of  his  face 
smoothed  into  a  timorous  smile,  as  his  eye  encountered  Dali- 
bard's.  The  father  beckoned  to  the  boy,  who  approached  with 
alacrity.  "Gabriel,"  whispered  the  Frenchman,  in  his  own 
tongue,  "where  are  they  at  this  moment?" 

The  boy  pointed  silently  towards  one  of  the  cedars.  Dali- 
bard  mused  an  instant,  and  then  slowly  descending  the  steps, 
took  his  noiseless  way  over  the  smooth  turf  towards  the  tree. 
Its  boughs  drooped  low  and  spread  wide;  and  not  till  he  was 
within  a  few  paces  of  the  spot  could  his  eye  perceive  two 
forms,  seated  on  a  bench  under  the  dark  green  canopy.  He 
then  paused  and  contemplated  them. 

The  one  was  a  young  man,  whose  simple  dress  and  subdued 
air  strongly  contrasted  the  artificial  graces  and  the  modish 
languor  of  Mr.  Vernon  ;  but  though  wholly  without  that  name- 
less distinction  which  sometimes  characterizes  those  conscious 


LUCRETIA.  17 

ot  pure  race,  an  ^abituated  to  the  atmosphere  of  courts,  he 
had  at  least  Nature's  stamp  of  aristocracy,  and  a  form  eminently 
noble,  and  features  of  manly,  but  surpassing  beauty,  which 
were  not  rendered  less  engaging  by  an  expression  of  modest 
timidity.  He  seemed  to  be  listening  with  thoughtful  respect 
to  his  companion,  a  young  female  by  his  side,  who  was  speak- 
ing to  him  with  an  earnestness  visible  in  her  gestures  and  her 
animated  countenance.  And  though  there  was  much  to  notice 
in  the  various  persons  scattered  over  the  scene,  not  one,  per- 
haps— not  the  graceful  Vernon  ;  not  the  thoughtful  scholar,  nor 
his  fair-haired,  hard-lipped  son ;  not  even  the  handsome  listener 
she  addressed — no,  not  one  there  would  so  have  arrested  the 
eye,  whether  of  a  physiognomist  or  a  casual  observer,  as  that 
young  girl,  Sir  Miles  St.  John's  favorite  niece  and  presumptive 
heiress. 

But,  as  at  that  moment  the  expression  of  her  face  differed 
from  that  habitual  to  it,  we  defer  its  description. 

"Do  not" — such  were  her  words  to  her  companion — "do 
not  alarm  yourself  by  exaggerating  the  difficulties ;  do  not  even 
contemplate  them — those  be  my  care.  Mainwaring,  when  I 
loved  you,  when,  seeing  that  your  diffidence  or  your  pride  for- 
bade you  to  be  the  first  to  speak,  I  overstepped  the  modesty  or 
the  dissimulation  of  my  sex;  when  I  said,  'Forget  that  I  am 
the  reputed  heiress  of  Laughton ;  see  in  me  but  the  faults  and 
merits  of  the  human  being,  of  the  wild,  unregulated  girl ;  see 
in  me  but  Lucretia  Clavering  (here  her  cheeks  blushed,  and 
her  voice  sank  into  a  lower  and  more  tremulous  whisper),  and 
love  her  if  you  can!'  When  I  went  thus  far,  do  not  think  I 
had  not  measured  all  the  difficulties  in  the  way  of  our  union, 
and  felt  that  I  could  surmount  them." 

"But,"  answered  Mainwaring  hesitatingly,  "can  you  con- 
ceive it  possible  that  your  uncle  ever  will  consent?  Is  not 
pride — the  pride  of  family — almost  the  leading  attribute  of  his 
character?  Did  he  not  discard  your  mother — his  own  sister — 
from  his  house  and  heart,  for  no  other  offence  but  a  second 
marriage  which  he  deemed  beneath  her?  Has  he  ever  even  con- 
sented to  see,  much  less  to  receive,  your  half-sister — the  child 
of  that  marriage?  Is  not  his  very  affection  for  you  interwoven 
with  his  pride  in  you,  with  his  belief  in  your  ambition?  Has 
he  not  summoned  your  cousin,  Mr.  Vernon.  for  the  obvious 
purpose  of  favoring  a  suit  which  he  considers  worthy  of  you, 
and  which,  if  successful,  will  unite  the  two  branches  of  his  an- 
cient house?  How  is  it  possible  that  he  can  ever  hear  without 
a  scorn  and  indignation  which  would  be  fatal  to  your  fortunes 


l8  LUCRETIA. 

that  your  heart  has  presumed  to  choose,  in  William  Mainwar- 
ing,  a  man  without  ancestry  or  career?" 

"Not  without  career!"  interrupted  Lucretia  proudly.  "Do 
you  think,  if  you  were  master  of  Laughton,  that  your  ca- 
reer would  not  be  more  brilliant  than  that  of  yon  indolent, 
luxurious  coxcomb?  Do  you  think  that  I  could  have  been 
poor-hearted  enough  to  love  you,  if  I  had  not  recognized  in 
you  energies  and  talents  that  correspond  with  my  own  am- 
bition? For  I  am  ambitious,  as  you  know,  and  therefore  my 
mind  as  well  as  my  heart  went  with  my  love  for  you." 

"Ah,  Lucretia!  but  can  Sir  Miles  St.  John  see  my  future 
rise  in  my  present  obscurity?" 

"I  do  not  say  that  he  can,  or  will;  but  if  you  love  me,  we 
can  wait.  Do  not  fear  the  rivalry  of  Mr.  Vernon.  I  shall 
know  how  to  free  myself  from  so  tame  a  peril.  We  can  wait — 
my  uncle  is  old — his  habits  preclude  the  chance  of  a  much 
longer  life — he  has  already  had  severe  attacks.  We  are  young, 
dear  Mainwaring:  what  is  a  year  or  two  to  those  who  hope?" 

Mainwaring's  face  fell,  and  a  displeasing  chill  passed  though 
his  veins.  Could  this  young  creature,  her  uncle's  petted  and 
trusted  darling,  she  who  should  be  the  soother  of  his  infirmi- 
ties, the  prop  of  his  age,  the  sincerest  mourner  at  his  grave, 
weigh  coldly  thus  the  chances  of  his  death,  and  point  at  once 
to  the  altar  and  the  tomb? 

He  was  saved  from  the  embarrassment  of  reply  by  Dalibard's 
approach. 

"More  than  half  an  hour  absent,"  said  the  scholar  in  his 
own  language,  with  a  smile,  and  drawing  out  his  watch,  he 
placed  it  before  their  eyes;  "do  you  not  think  that  all  will  miss 
you?  Do  you  suppose,  Miss  Clavering,  that  your  uncle  has 
not,  ere  this,  asked  for  his  fair  niece?  Come,  and  forestall 
him."  He  offered  his  arm  to  Lucretia  as  he  spoke.  She  hesi- 
tated a  moment,  and  then,  turning  to  Mainwaring,  held  out  her 
hand ;  he  pressed  it,  though  scarcely  with  a  lover's  warmth ; 
and  as  she  walked  back  to  the  terrace  with  Dalibard,  the  young 
man  struck  slowly  into  the  opposite  direction,  and  passing  by  a 
gate,  over  a  foot-bridge,  that  led  from  the  ha-ha  into  the  park, 
bent  his  way  towards  a  lake  which  gleamed  below  at  some  dis- 
tance, half  concealed  by  groves  of  venerable  trees,  rich  with  the 
prodigal  boughs  of  summer.  Meanwhile,  as  they  passed  towards 
the  house,  Dalibard,  still  using  his  native  tongue,  thus  accosted 
his  pupil : 

"You  must  pardon  me  if  I  think  more  of  your  interests  than 
you  do ;  and  pardon  me  no  less  if  I  encroach  on  your  secrets 


LUCRETIA.  19 

and  alarm  your  pride.  This  young  man — can  you  be  guilty  of 
the  folly  of  more  than  a  passing  caprice  for  his  society?  of 
more  than  the  amusement  of  playing  with  his  vanity?  Even  if 
that  be  all,  beware  of  entangling  yourself  in  your  own  meshes. " 

"You  do,  in  truth,  offend  me,"  said  Lucretia,  with  calm 
haughtiness,  "and  you  have  not  the  right  thus  to  speak  tome." 

"Not  the  right,"  repeated  the  Provencal  mournfully;  "not 
the  right!  Then,  indeed,  I  am  mistaken  in  my  pupil.  Do 
you  conceive  that  I  would  have  lowered  my  pride  to  remain 
here  as  a  dependent ;  that,  conscious  of  attainments,  and  perhaps 
of  abilities,  that  should  win  their  way,  even  in  exile,  to  distinc- 
tion, I  would  have  frittered  away  my  life  in  these  rustic  shades, 
if  I  had  not  formed  in  you  a  deep  and  absorbing  interest ;  in 
that  interest  I  ground  my  right  to  warn  and  counsel  you.  I 
saw,  or  fancied  I  saw,  in  you  a  mind  congenial  to  my  own — a 
mind  above  the  frivolities  of  your  sex — a  mind,  in  short,  with 
the  grasp  and  energy  of  a  man's.  You  were  then  but  a  child ; 
you  are  scarcely  yet  a  woman ;  yet  have  I  not  given  to  your 
intellect  the  strong  food  on  which  the  statesmen  of  Florence 
fed  their  pupil  princes ;  or  the  noble  Jesuits,  the  noble  men 
who  were  destined  to  extend  the  secret  empire  of  the  imperish- 
able Loyola?"  • 

"You  gave  me  the  taste  for  a  knowledge  rare  in  my  sex,  I 
own,"  answered  Lucretia,  with  a  slight  tone  of  regret  in  her 
voice;  "and  in  the  knowledge  you  have  communicated  I  felt  a 
charm  that,  at  times,  seems  to  me  to  be  only  fatal.  You  have 
confounded  in  my  mind  evil  and  good,  or,  rather,  you  have 
left  both  good  and  evil  as  dead  ashes,  as  the  dust  and  cinder  of 
a  crucible.  You  have  made  intellect  the  only  conscience.  Of 
late,  I  wish  that  my  tutor  had  been  a  village  priest!" 

"Of  late!  Since  you  have  listened  to  the  pastorals  of  that 
meek  Corydon?" 

"Dare  you  despise  him — and  for  what?  That  he  is  good 
and  honest?" 

"I  despise  him  not  because  he  is  good  and  honest,  but  be- 
cause he  is  of  the  common  herd  of  men,  without  aim  or  char- 
acter. And  it  is  for  this  youth  that  you  would  sacrifice  your 
fortunes,  your  ambition,  the  station  you  were  born  to  fill  and 
have  been  reared  to  improve ;  this  youth  in  whom  there  is 
nothing  but  the  lap-dog's  merit — sleekness  and  beauty.  Ay, 
frown — the  frown  betrays  you — you  love  him ! ' ' 

"And  if  I  do?"  said  Lucretia,  raising  her  tall  form  to  its 
utmost  height,  and  haughtily  facing  her  inquisitor.  "And  if  I 
do,  what  then?  Is  he  unworthy  of  me?  Converse  with  him,  and 


20  LUCRETIA. 

you  will  find  that  the  noble  form  conceals  as  high  a  spirit.  He 
wants  but  wealth;  I  can  give  it  to  him.  If  his  temper  is  gen- 
tle, I  can  prompt  and  guide  it  to  fame  and  power.  He,  at 
least  has  education  and  eloquence  and  mind.  What  has  Mr. 
Vernon?" 

"Mr.  Vernon,  I  did  not  speak  of  him!" 

Lucretia  gazed  hard  upon  the  Provencal's  countenance — 
gazed  with  that  unpitying  air  of  triumph  with  which  a  woman 
who  detects  a  power  over  the  heart  she  does  not  desire  to  con- 
quer, exults  in  defeating  the  reasons  that  heart  appears  to  her 
to  prompt.  "No,"  she  said,  in  a  calm  voice,  to  which  the  ven- 
om of  secret  irony  gave  stinging  significance;  "No,  you  spoke 
not  of  Mr.  Vernon ;  you  thought  that  if  I  looked  round — if  I 
looked  nearer — I  might  have  a  fairer  choice." 

"You  are  cruel — you  are  unjust,"  said  Dalibard  falteringly. 
"If  I  once  presumed  for  a  moment,  have  I  repeated  my 
offence?  But,"  he  added  hurriedly,  "in  me — much  as  you 
appear  to  despise  me — in  me,  at  least,  you  would  have  risked 
none  of  the  dangers  that  beset  you  if  you  seriously  set  your 
heart  on  Mainwaring." 

"You  think  my  uncle  would  be  proud  to  give  my  hand  to 
Monsieur  Olivier  Dalibard?" 

"I  think  and  I  know,"  answered  the  Provencal  gravely, 
and  disregarding  the  taunt,  "that  if  you  had  deigned  to  render 
me — poor  exile  that  I  am! — the  most  enviable  of  men,  you 
had  still  been  the  heiress  of  Laugh  ton." 

"So  you  have  said  and  urged,"  said  Lucretia,  with  evident 
curiosity  in  her  voice;  "yet  how,  and  by  what  art — wise  and 
subtle  as  you  are — could  you  have  won  my  uncle's  consent?" 

"That  is  my  secret,"  returned  Dalibard  gloomily:  "and 
since  the  madness  I  indulged  is  forever  over ;  since  I  have  so 
schooled  my  heart,  that  nothing,  despite  your  sarcasm,  save  an 
affectionate  interest  which  I  may  call  paternal,  rests  there — let 
us  pass  from  this  painful  subject.  Oh,  my  dear  pupil,  be 
warned  in  time !  Know  love  for  what  it  really  is,  in  the  dark 
and  complicated  history  of  actual  life,  a  brief  enchantment,  not 
to  be  disdained,  but  not  to  be  considered  the  all  in  all.  Look 
round  the  world ;  contemplate  all  those  who  have  married  from 
passion — ten  years  afterwards,  whither  has  the  passion  flown? 
With  a  few,  indeed,  where  there  is  community  of  object  and 
character,  new  excitements,  new  aims,  and  hopes,  spring  up ; 
and,  having  first  taken  root  in  passion,  the  passion  continues 
to  shoot  out  in  their  fresh  stems  and  fibres,  But  deceive  yourself 
not;  there  is  no  such  community  between  you  and  Mainwar- 


LUCRETIA.  21 

ing.  What  you  call  his  goodness  you  will  learn  hereafter  to 
despise  as  feeble;  and  what  in  reality  is  your  mental  power  he 
soon — too  soon — will  shudder  at  as  unwomanly  and  hateful." 

"Hold!"  cried  Lucretia  tremulously.  "Hold!  And  if  he 
does,  I  shall  owe  his  hate  to  you — to  your  lessons — to  your 
deadly  influence!" 

"Lucretia,  no!  The  seeds  were  in  you!  Can  cultivation 
force  from  the  soil  that  which  it  is  against  the  nature  of  the 
soil  to  bear?" 

"I  will  pluck  out  the  weeds!     I  will  transform  myself!" 

"Child,  I  defy  you!"  said  the  scholar,  with  a  smile,  that 
gave  to  his  face  the  expression  his  son  had  conveyed  to  it.  "I 
have  warned  you  and  my  task  is  done."  With  that  he  bowed, 
and  leaving  her,  was  soon  by  the  side  of  Sir  Miles  St.  John, 
and  the  Baronet  and  his  librarian  a  few  moments  after  entered 
the  house,  and  sat  down  to  chess. 

But  during  the  dialogues  we  have  sketched,  we  must  not 
suppose  that  Sir  Miles  himself  had  been  so  wholly  absorbed  in  the 
sensual  gratification  bestowed  upon  Europe  by  the  immortal 
Raleigh,  as  to  neglect  his  guest  and  kinsman. 

"And  so,  Charley  Vernon,  it  is  not  the  fashion  to  smoke  in 
Lunnon"  (thus  Sir  Miles  pronounced  the  word,  according  to 
the  euphuism  of  his  youth,  and  which,  even  at  that  day,  still 
lingered  in  courtly  jargon). 

"No,  sir.  However,  to  console  us,  we  have  most  other  vices 
in  full  force." 

"I  don't  doubt  it;  they  say  the  Prince's  set  exhaust  life 
pretty  quickly." 

"It  certainly  requires  the  fortune  of  an  earl  and  the  consti- 
tution of  a  prize-fighter  to  live  with  him." 

"Yet  methinks,  Master  Charley,  you  have  neither  one  nor 
the  other." 

"And  therefore  I  see  before  me,  and  at  no  very  great  dis- 
tance, the  Bench — and  a  consumption!"  answered  Vernon, 
suppressing  a  slight  yawn. 

'  'Tis  a  pity ;  for  you  had  a  fine  estate  properly  managed ; 
and,  in  spite  of  your  faults,  you  have  the  heart  of  a  true  gen- 
tleman. Come,  come!" — and  the  old  man  spoke  with  tender- 
ness— "you  are  young  enough  yet  to  reform.  A  prudent  mar- 
riage, and  a  good  wife,  will  save  both  your  health  and  your 
acres." 

"If  you  think  so  highly  of  marriage,  my  dear  Sir  Miles,  it  is 
a  wonder  you  did  not  add  to  your  precepts  the  value  of  your 
example." 


22  LtfCRETIA. 

"Jackanapes!  I  had  not  your  infirmities!  I  never  was  a 
spendthrift,  and  I  have  a  constitution  of  iron!"  There  was  a 
pause.  "Charles,"  continued  Sir  Miles,  musingly,  "there  is 
many  an  earl  with  a  less  fortune  than  the  conjoined  estates  of 
Vernon  Grange  and  Laughton  Hall.  You  must  already  have 
understood  me — it  is  my  intention  to  leave  my  estates  to  Lu- 
cretia — it  is  my  wish,  nevertheless,  to  think  you  will  not  be  the 
worse  for  my  will.  Frankly,  if  you  can  like  my  niece,  win 
her ;  settle  here  while  I  live,  put  the  Grange  to  nurse,  and 
recruit  yourself  by  fresh  air  and  field-sports.  Zounds,  Charles, 
I  love  you,  and  that's  the  truth!  Give  me  your  hand!" 

"And  a  grateful  heart  with  it,  sir,"  said  Vernon  warmly, 
evidently  affected,  as  he  started  from  his  indolent  position,  and 
took  the  hand  extended  to  him.  "Believe  me,  I  do  not  covet 
your  wealth,  nor  do  I  envy  my  cousin  anything  so  much  as 
the  first  place  in  your  regard." 

"Prettily  said,  my  boy;  and  I  don't  suspect  you  of  insin- 
cerity. What  think  you  then,  of  my  plan?" 

Mr.  Vernon  seemed  embarrassed;  but,  recovering  himsel/ 
with  his  usual  ease,  he  replied  archly,  "Perhaps,  sir,  it  will  be 
of  little  use  to  know  what  I  think  of  your  plan ;  my  fair  cousin 
may  have  upset  it  already." 

"Ha,  sir,  let  me  look  at  you — so — so!  You  are  not  jesting. 
What  the  deuce  do  you  mean?  Gad,  man,  speak  out!" 

"Do  you  not  think  that  Mr.  Monderling — Mandolin — what's 
his  name — eh? — do  you  not  think  that  he  is  a  very  handsome 
young  fellow?"  said  Mr.  Vernon,  drawing  out  his  snuff-box, 
and  offering  it  to  his  kinsman. 

"Damn  your  snuff,"  quoth  Sir  Miles,  in  great  choler,  as  he 
rejected  the  proffered  courtesy  with  a  vehemence  that  sent  half 
the  contents  of  the  box  upon  the  joint  eyes  and  noses  of  the 
two  canine  favorites  dozing  at  his  feet.  The  setter  started  up 
in  an  agony;  the  spaniel  wheezed  and  sniffled,  and  ran  off, 
stopping  every  moment  to  take  his  head  between  his  paws. 
The  old  gentleman  continued,  without  heeding  the  sufferings 
of  his  dumb  friends — a  symptom  of  rare  discomposure  on  his 
part: 

"Do  you  mean  to  insinuate,  Mr.  Vernon,  that  my  niece — 
my  elder  niece,  Lucretia  Clavering — condescends  to  notice  the 
looks,  good  or  bad,  of  Mr.  Mainwaring?  'Sdeath,  sir,  he  is 
the  son  of  a  land-agent !  Sir,  he  is  intended  for  trade !  Sir, 
his  highest  ambition  is  to  be  partner  in  some  fifth-rate  mercan- 
tile house!" 

"My  dear  Sir  Miles,"   replied  Mr.  Vernon,  as  he  continued 


LUCRETIA.  23 

to  brush  away,  with  his  scented  handkerchief,  such  portions  of 
the  prince's  mixture  as  his  nankin  inexpressibles  had  diverted 
from  the  sensual  organs  of  Dash  andPonto;  "My  dear  Sir 
Miles,  (a  nempeche  pas  le  sentiment!" 

" Empeche  the  fiddlestick!  You  don't  know  Lucretia. 
There  are  many  girls,  indeed,  who  might  not  be  trusted  near 
any  handsome  flute-playing  spark,  with  black  eyes  and  white 
teeth;  but  Lucretia  is  not  one  of  those;  she  has  spirit  and 
ambition  that  would  never  stoop  to  a  mesalliance ;  she  has  the 
mind  and  will  of  a  queen — old  Queen  Bess,  I  believe." 

"That  is  saying  much  for  her  talents,  sir;  but  if  so,  Heaven 
help  her  intended !  I  am  duly  grateful  for  the  blessings  you 
propose  me!" 

Despite  his  anger,  the  old  gentleman  could  not  help  smiling. 

"Why,  to  confess  the  truth,  she  is  hard  to  manage;  but  we 
men  of  the  world  know  how  to  govern  women,  I  hope — much 
more  how  to  break  in  a  girl  scarce  out  of  her  teens.  As  for 
this  fancy  of  yours,  it  is  sheer  folly — Lucretia  knows  my  mind. 
She  has  seen  her  mother's  fate ;  she  has  seen  her  sister  an  exile 
from  my  house — why?  for  no  fault  of  hers,  poor  thing!  but 
because  she  is  the  child  of  disgrace,  and  the  mother's  sin  is 
visited  on  the  daughter's  head.  I  am  a  good-natured  man,  I 
fancy,  as  men  go;  but  I  am  old-fashioned  enough  to  care  for 
my  race.  If  Lucretia  demeaned  herself  to  love,  to  encourage, 
that  lad — why,  I  would  strike  her  from  my  will,  and  put  your 
name  where  I  have  placed  hers." 

"Sir,"  said  Vernon  gravely,  and  throwing  aside  all  affecta- 
tion of  manner,  "this  becomes  serious;  and  I  have  no  right 
even  to  whisper  a  doubt  by  which  it  now  seems  I  might  benefit. 
I  think  it  imprudent,  if  you  wish  Miss  Clavering  to  regard  me 
impartially  as  a  suitor  to  her  hand,  to  throw  her,  at  her  age,  in 
the  way  of  a  man  far  superior  to  myself,  and  to  most  men,  in  per- 
sonal advantages — a  man  more  of  her  o\vn  years,  well  educated, 
well  mannered,  with  no  evidence  of  his  inferior  birth  in  his 
appearance  or  his  breeding.  I  have  not  the  least  ground  for 
supposing  that  he  has  made  the  slightest  impression  on  Miss 
Clavering,  and  if  he  has,  it  would  be,  perhaps,  but  a  girl's  in- 
nocent and  thoughtless  fancy,  easily  shaken  off  by  time  and 
worldly  reflection ;  but  pardon  me  if  I  say  bluntly  that  should 
that  be  so,  you  would  be  wholly  unjustified  in  punishing,  even  in 
blaming  her — it  is  yourself  you  must  blame  for  your  own  care- 
lessness, and  that  forgetful  blindness  to  human  nature  and 
youthful  emotions  which,  I  must  say,  is  the  less  pardonable  in 
gne  who  has  known  the  world  so  intimately." 


24  LUCRETIA. 

"Charles  Vernon,"  said  the  old  Baronet,  "give  me  your 
hand,  again!  I  was  right,  at  least,  when  I  said  you  had  the 
heart  of  a  true  gentleman.  Drop  this  subject  for  the  present. 
Who  has  just  left  Lucretia  yonder?" 

" ^[QWC  protege — the  Frenchman." 

"Ah,  he,  at  least,  is  not  blind — go,  and  join  Lucretia!" 

Vernon  bowed,  emptied  the  remains  of  the  Madeira  into  a 
tumbler,  drank  the  contents  at  a  draught,  and  sauntered 
towards  Lucretia;  but  she,  perceiving  his  approach,  crossed 
abruptly  into  one  of  the  alleys  that  led  to  the  other  side  of  the 
house ;  and  he  was  either  too  indifferent,  or  too  well-bred,  to 
force  upon  her  the  companionship  which  she  so  evidently 
shunned.  He  threw  himself  at  length  upon  one  of  the  benches 
in  the  lawn,  and,  leaning  his  head  upon  his  hand,  fell  into  re- 
flections, which,  had  he  spoken,  would  have  shaped  themselves 
somewhat  thus  into  words : 

"If  I  must  take  that  girl  as  the  price  of  this  fair  heritage, 
shall  I  gain  or  lose?  I  grant  that  she  has  the  finest  neck  and 
shoulders  I  ever  saw  out  of  marble ;  but  far  from  being  in  love 
with  her,  she  gives  me  a  feeling  like  fear  and  aversion.  Add 
to  this  that  she  has  evidently  no  kinder  sentiment  for  me  than 
I  for  her;  and  if  she  once  had  a  heart,  that  young  gentleman 
has  long  since  coaxed  it  away.  Pleasant  auspices,  these,  for 
matrimony,  to  a  poor  invalid,  who  wishes  at  least  to  decline 
and  to  die  in  peace!  Moreover,  if  I  were  rich  enough  to  marry 
as  I  pleased — if  I  were  what,  perhaps,  I  ought  to  be,  heir  to 
Laughton — why,  there  is  a  certain  sweet  Mary  in  the  world 
whose  eyes  are  softer  than  Lucretia  Clavering's:  but  that  is  a 
dream!  On  the  other  hand,  if  I  do  not  win  this  girl,  and  my 
poor  kinsman  give  her  all  or  nearly  all  his  possessions,  Vernon 
Grange  goes  to  the  usurers,  and  the  King  will  find  a  lodging 
for  myself.  What  does  it  matter?  I  cannot  live  above  two  or 
three  years  at  the  most,  and  can  only  hope,  therefore,  that  dear 
stout  old  Sir  Miles  may  outlive  me.  At  thirty-three  I  have 
worn  out  fortune  and  life;  little  pleasure  could  Laughton  give 
me ;  brief  pain  the  Bench.  Fore  Gad,  the  philosophy  of  the 
thing  is  on  the  whole  against  sour  looks  and  the  noose ! "  Thus 
deciding  in  the  progress  of  his  reverie,  he  smiled,  and  changed 
his  position.  The  sun  had  set — the  twilight  was  over — the 
moon  rose  in  splendor  from  amidst  a  thick  copse  of  mingled 
beech  and  oak ;  the  beams  fell  full  on  the  face  of  the  muser, 
and  the  face  seemed  yet  paler,  and  the  exhaustion  of  prema- 
ture decay  yet  more  evident,  by  that  still  and  melancholy  light — 
all  ruins  gain  dignity  by  the  moon.  This  was  a  ruin  nobler 


LUCRETIA.  25 

than  that  which  painters  place  on  their  canvas ;  the  ruin,  not  of 
stone  and  brick,  but  of  humanity  and  spirit;  the  wreck  of  man, 
prematurely  old,  not  stricken  by  great  sorrow,  not  bowed  by 
great  toil,  but  fretted  and  mined  away  by  small  pleasures  and 
poor  excitements — small  and  poor,  but  daily,  hourly,  momently 
at  their  gnome-like  work.  Something  of  the  gravity  and  the 
true  lesson  of  the  hour  and  scene,  perhaps,  forced  itself  upon 
a  mind  little  given  to  sentiment,  for  Vernon  rose  languidly,  and 
muttered : 

"My  poor  mother  hoped  better  things  from  me.  It  is  well, 
after  all,  that  it  is  broken  off  with  Mary !  Why  should  there 
be  any  one  to  weep  for  me.  ?  I  can  the  better  die  smiling,  as 
I  have  lived." 

Meanwhile,  as  it  is  necessary  we  should  follow  each  of  the 
principal  characters  we  have  introduced  through  the  course  of 
an  evening  more  or  less  eventful  in  the  destiny  of  all,  we  return 
to  Mainwaring,  and  accompany  him  to  the  lake  at  the  bottom 
of  the  park,  which  he  reached  as  its  smooth  surface  glistened 
in  the  last  beams  of  the  sun.  He  saw,  as  he  neared  the  water, 
the  fish  sporting  in  the  pellucid  tide ;  the  dragon-fly  darted 
and  hovered  in  the  air ;  the  tedded  grass  beneath  his  feet  gave 
forth  the  fragrance  of  crushed  thyme  and  clover;  the  swan 
paused,  as  if  slumbering  on  the  wave;  the  linnet  and  finch 
sang  still  from  the  neighboring  copses ;  and  the  heavy  bees 
were  winging  their  way  home  with  a  drowsy  murmur;  all 
around  were  images  of  that  unspeakable  peace  which  Nature 
whispers  to  those  attuned  to  her  music ;  all  fitted  to  lull,  but  not 
to  deject  the  spirit ;  images  dear  to  the  holiday  of  the  world- 
worn  man,  to  the  contemplation  of  serene  and  retired  age;  to 
the  boyhood  of  poets ;  to  the  youth  of  lovers.  But  Mainwar- 
ing's  step  was  heavy,  and  his  brow  clouded ;  and  Nature  that 
evening  was  dumb  to  him.  At  the  margin  of  the  lake  stood  a 
solitary  angler,  who  now  (his  evening's  task  done)  was  em- 
ployed in  leisurely  disjointing  his  rod,  and  whistling  with  much 
sweetness  an  air  from  one  of  Isaak  Walton's  songs.  Mainwar- 
ing reached  the  angler,  and  laid  his  hand  on  his  shoulder : 

"What  sport,  Ardworth?" 

'  'A  few  large  roach  with  the  fly,  and  one  pike  with  a  gudg- 
eon— a  noble  fellow! — look  at  him!  He  was  lying  under  the 
reeds  yonder;  I  saw  his  green  back,  and  teased  him  into  biting. 
A  heavenly  evening!  I  wonder  you  did  not  follow  my  exam- 
ple and  escape  from  a  set  where  neither  you  nor  I  can  feel  very 
much  at  home,  to  this  green  banquet  of  Nature  in  which  at  least 
no  man  sits  below  the  salt-cellar,  The  birds  are  an  older  fam- 


26  LUCRETIA. 

ily  than  the  St.  Johns' ;  but  they  don't  throw  their  pedigree  in 
our  teeth,  Mainwaring. " 

"Nay,  nay,  my  good  friend,  you  wrong  old  Sir  Miles;  proud 
he  is,  no  doubt,  but  neither  you  nor  I  have  had  to  complain  of 
his  insolence." 

"Of  his  insolence!  certainly  not — of  his  condescension, 
yes!  Hang  it,  William,  it  is  his  very  politeness  that  galls  me. 

Don't  you  observe  that  with  Vernon,  or  Lord  A ,  or  Lord 

B ,  or  Mr.  C ,  he  is  easy  and  off-hand,  calls  them  by 

their  names,  pats  them  on  the  shoulder,  rates  them,  and  swears 
at  them  if  they  vex  him ;  but  with  you  and  me  and  his  French 
parasite  it  is  all  stately  decorum  and  punctilious  courtesy:  'Mr. 
Mainwaring,  I  am  delighted  to  see  you;'  'Mr.  Ardworth,  as 
you  are  so  near,  dare  I  ask  you  to  ring  the  bell' ;  'Mons.  Dali- 
bard,  with  the  utmost  deference,  I  venture  to  disagree  with 
you.'  However,  don't  let  my  foolish  susceptibility  ruffle  your 
pride.  And  you,  too,  have  a  worthy  object  in  view,  which 
might  well  detain  you  from  roach  and  jack-fish.  Have  you 
stolen  your  interview  with  the  superb  Lucretia?" 

"Yes,  stolen,  as  you  say:  and,  like  all  thieves  not  thor- 
dughly  hardened,  I  am  ashamed  of  my  gains." 

"Sit  down,  my  boy;  this  is  a  bank  in  ten  thousand;  there — 
that  old  root  to  lean  your  elbow  on,  this  soft  moss  for  your 
cushion  ;  sit  down  and  confess.  You  have  something  on  your 
mind  that  preys  on  you:  we  are  old  college  friends — out 
with  it!" 

''There  is  no  resisting  you,  Ardworth,"  said  Mainwaring, 
smiling,  and  drawn  from  his  reserve  and  his  gloom  by  the 
frank  good-humor  of  his  companion:  "I  should  like,  I  own,  to 
make  a  clean  breast  of  it ;  and  perhaps  I  may  profit  by  your 
advice.  You  know,  in  the  first  place,  that  after  I  left  college, 
my  father,  seeing  me  indisposed  for  the  Church,  to  which  he 
had  always  destined  me  in  his  own  heart,  and  for  which,  in- 
deed, he  had  gone  out  of  his  way  to  maintain  me  at  the  Univer- 
sity, gave  me  the  choice  of  his  own  business  as  a  surveyor  and 
land-agent,  or  of  entering  into  the  mercantile  profession.  I 
chose  the  latter,  and  went  to  Southampton,  where  we  have  a 
relation  in  business,  to  be  initiated  into  the  elementary  myster- 
ies. There  I  became  acquainted  with  a  good  clergyman  and 
his  wife,  and  in  that  house  I  passed  a  great  part  of  my 
time." 

"With  the  hope,  I  trust,  on  better  consideration,  of  gratifying 
your  father's  ambition,  and  learning  how  to  starve  with  gen- 
tility on  a  cure." 


LUCRETIA.  27 

"Not  much  of  that,  I  fear." 

"Then  the  clergyman  had  a  daughter?" 

"You  are  nearer  the  mark  now,"  said  Main  waring,  coloring; 
"though  it  was  not  his  daughter;  a  young  lady  lived  in  his 
family,  not  even  related  to  him ;  she  was  placed  there  with  a 
certain  allowance  by  a  rich  relation.  In  a  word,  I  admired, 
perhaps  I  loved  this  young  person ;  but  she  was  without  an  in- 
dependence, and  I  not  yet  provided  even  with  the  substitute  of 
money,  a  profession.  I  fancied  (do  not  laugh  at  my  vanity) 
that  my  feelings  might  be  returned.  I  was  in  alarm  for  her  as 
well  as  myself ;  I  sounded  the  clergyman  as  to  the  chance  of 
obtaining  the  consent  of  her  rich  relation,  and  was  informed 
that  he  thought  it  hopeless.  I  felt  I  had  no  right  to  invite  her 
to  poverty  and  ruin,  and  still  less  to  entangle  further  (if  I  had 
chanced  to  touch  at  all)  her  affection.  I  made  an  excuse  to 
my  father  to  leave  the  town,  and  returned  home." 

"Prudent  and  honorable  enough,  so  far;  unlike  me;  I 
should  have  run  off  with  the  girl,  if  she  loved  me,  and  old 
Plutus,  the  rascal,  might  have  done  his  worst  against  'Cupid. 
But  I  interrupt  you." 

"I  came  back  when  the  country  was  greatly  agitated:  public 
meetings,  speeches,  mobs — a  sharp  election  going  on.  My 
father  had  always  taken  keen  interest  in  politics ;  he  was  of  the 
same  party  as  Sir  Miles,  who,  you  know,  is  red-hot  upon  poli- 
tics. I  was  easily  led — partly  by  ambition,  partly  by  the  effect 
of  example,  partly  by  the  hope  to  give  a  new  turn  to  my 
thoughts — to  make  an  appearance  in  public." 

"And  a  devilish  creditable  one,  too.  Why,  man,  your 
speeches  have  been  quoted  with  rapture  by  the  London  papers. 
Horridly  aristocratic  and  Pittish,  it  is  true — I  think  differently ; 
but  every  man  to  his  taste.  Well — " 

"My  attempts,  such  as  they  were,  procured  me  the  favor  of 
Sir  Miles.  He  had  long  been  -acquainted  with  my  father,  who 
had  helped  him  in  his  own  elections  years  ago.  He  seemed 
cordially  delighted  to  patronize  the  son :  he  invited  me  to  visit 
him  at  Laughton,  and  hinted  to  my  father  that  I  was  formed 
for  something  better  than  a  counting-house :  my  poor  father 
was  intoxicated.  In  a  word,  here  I  am — here,  often  for  days, 
almost  weeks  together,  have  I  been — a  guest,  always 
welcomed." 

"You  pause.  This  is  the  primordium — now  comes  the  con- 
fession, eh?" 

"Why,  one-half  the  confession  is  over.  It  was  my  most  un- 
merited fortune  to  attract  the  notice  of  Miss  Clavering.  Do 


28  LUCRETIA. 

not  fancy  me  so  self-conceited  as  to  imagine  that  I  should  ever 
have  presumed  so  high,  but  for — " 

"But  for  encouragement — I  understand!  Well,  she  is  a 
magnificent  creature  in  her  way ;  and  I  do  not  wonder  that 
she  drove  the  poor  little  girl  at  Southampton  out  of  your 
thoughts." 

"Ah!  but  there  is  the  sore — I  am  not  sure  that  she  has  done 
so.  Ardworth,  I  may  trust  you?" 

"With  everything  but  half-a-guinea.  I  would  not  promise 
to  be  rock  against  so  great  a  temptation";  and  Ardworth 
turned  his  empty  pockets  inside  out. 

"Tush;  be  serious;  or  I  go." 

"Serious!  With  pockets  like  these,  the  devil's  in  it  if  I  am 
not  serious.  Perge,  precor." 

"Ardworth,  then,"  said  Mainwaring,  with  great  emotion, 
"I  confide  to  you  the  secret  trouble  of  my  heart.  This  girl 
at  Southampton  is  Lucretia's  sister — her  half-sister:  the  rich 
relation  on  whose  allowance  she  lives  is  Sir  Miles  St.  John." 

"Whew!  My  own  poor  dear  little  cousin,  by  the  father's 
side !  Mainwaring,  I  trust  you  have  not  deceived  me ;  you 
have  not  amused  yourself  with  breaking  Susan's  heart — for  a 
heart,  and  an  honest,  simple,  English  girl's  heart,  she  has." 

"Heaven  forbid!  I  tell  you  I  have  never  even  declared  my 
love — and  if  love  it  were,  I  trust  it  is  over.  But  when  Sir  Miles 
was  first  kind  to  me,  first  invited  me,  I  own  I  had  the  hope  to 
win  his  esteem,  and  since  he  had  always  made  so  strong  and 
cruel  a  distinction  between  Lucretia  and  Susan,  I  thought  it 
not  impossible  that  he  might  consent  at  last  to  my  union  with 
the  niece  he  had  refused  to  receive  and  acknowledge.  But 
even  while  the  hope  was  in  me,  I  was  drawn  on — I  was  en- 
tangled— I  was  spell-bound — I  know  not  how  or  why;  but,  to 
close  my  confidence,  while  still  doubtful  whether  my  own  heart 
is  free  from  the  remembrance  of  the  one  sister,  I  am  pledged 
to  the  other." 

Ardworth  looked  down  gravely  and  remained  silent.  He 
was  a  joyous,  careless,  reckless  youth,  with  unsteady  character 
and  pursuits,  and  with  something  of  vague  poetry,  much  of 
unaccommodating  pride  about  his  nature — one  of  those  youths 
little  likely  to  do  what  is  called  well  in  the  world — not  persevering 
enough  for  an  independent  career,  too  blunt  and  honest  for  a 
servile  one.  But  it  was  in  the  very  disposition  of  such  a  per- 
son to  judge  somewhat  harshly  of  Mainwaring's  disclosure,  and 
not  easily  to  comprehend  what,  after  all,  was  very  natural — 
how  a  young  man,  new  to  life,  timid  by  character,  and  of  an 


LUCRETIA.  39 

extreme  susceptibility  to  the  fear  of  giving  pain,  had,  in  the 
surprise,  the  gratitude,  the  emotion,  of  an  avowed  attachment 
from  a  girl,  far  above  him  in  worldly  position,  been  forced  by 
receiving  to  seem,  at  least,  to  return  her  affection.  And  in- 
deed though  not  wholly  insensible  to  the  brilliant  prospects 
opened  to  him  in  such  a  connection,  yet,  to  do  him  justice. 
Mainwaring  would  have  been  equally  entangled  by  a  similar 
avowal  from  a  girl  more  his  equal  in  the  world.  It  was  rather 
from  an  amiability  bordering  upon  weakness,  than  from  any 
more  degrading  moral  imperfections,  that  he  had  been  betrayed 
into  a  position  which  neither  contented  his  heart  nor  satisfied 
his  conscience. 

With  far  less  ability  than  his  friend,  Ardworth  had  more 
force  and  steadiness  in  his  nature,  and  was  wholly  free  from 
that  morbid  delicacy  of  temperament  to  which  susceptible 
and  shy  persons  owe  much  of  their  errors  and  misfortunes. 
He  said,  therefore,  after  a  long  pause,  "My  good  fellow,  to  be 
plain  with  you,  I  cannot  say  that  your  confession  has  improved 
you  in  my  estimation;  but  that  is  perhaps  because  of  the 
bluntness  of  my  understanding.  I  could  quite  comprehend 
your  forgetting  Susan  (and,  after  all,  I  am  left  in  doubt  as  to 
the  extent  of  her  conquest  over  you),  for  the  very  different 
charms  of  her  sister.  On  the  other  hand,  I  could  still  better 
understand  that,  having  once  fancied  Susan,  you  could  not 
be  commanded  into  love  for  Lucretia.  But  I  do  not  compre- 
hend your  feeling  love  for  one,  and  making  love  to  the  other — 
which  is  the  long  and  short  of  the  business." 

"That  is  not  exactly  the  true  statement,"  answered  Main- 
waring,  with  a  powerful  effort  at  composure.  "There  are  mo- 
ments when,  listening  to  Lucretia,  when  charmed  by  that  soft- 
ness which,  contrasting  the  rest  of  her  character,  she  exhibits 
to  none  but  me,  struck  by  her  great  mental  powers,  proud  of 
an  unsought  triumph  over  such  a  being,  I  feel  as  if  I  could 
love  none  but  her;  then,  suddenly,  her  mood  changes — she  utters 
sentiments  that  chill  and  revolt  me ;  the  very  beauty  seems 
vanished  from  her  face.  I  recall,  with  a  sigh,  the  simple 
sweetness  of  Susan,  and  I  feel  as  if  I  deceived  both  my  mis- 
tress and  myself.  Perhaps,  however,  all  the  circumtances  of 
this  connection  tend  to  increase  my  doubts.  It  is  humiliating 
to  me  to  know  that  I  woo  clandestinely  and  upon  sufferance ; 
that  I  am  stealing,  as  it  were,  into  a  fortune ;  that  I  am  eating 
Sir  Miles's  bread,  and  yet  counting  upon  his  death ;  and  this 
shame  in  myself  may  make  me  unconsciously  unjust  to  Lucre- 
tia. But  it  is  useless  to  reprove  me  for  what  is  past;  and 


JO  LUCRETIA. 

though  I  at  first  imagined  you  could  advise  me  for  the  future, 
I  now  see,  too  clearly,  that  no  advice_  could  avail." 

"I  grant  that,  too;  for  all  you  require  is  to  make  up  your 
mind  to  be  fairly  off  with  the  old  love,  or  fairly  on  with  the 
new.  However,  now  you  have  stated  your  case  thus  frankly, 
if  you  permit  me,  I  will  take  advantage  of  the  strange  chance 
of  finding  myself  here,  and  watch,  ponder,  and  counsel,  if  I 
can.  This  Lucretia,  I  own  it,  puzzles  and  perplexes  me;  but 
though  no  (Edipus,  I  will  not  take  fright  at  the  Sphynx.  I 
suppose  now  it  is  time  to  return.  They  expect  some  of  the 
neighbors  to  drink  tea,  and  I  must  doff  my  fishing-jacket. 
Come!" 

As  they  strolled  towards  the  house  Ardworth  broke  a  silence 
which  had  lasted  for  some  moments: 

"And  how  is  that  dear  good  Fielden?  I  ought  to  have 
guessed  him  at  once  when  you  spoke  of  your  clergyman  and 
his  young  charge:  but  I  did  not  know  he  was  at  South- 
ampton." 

"He  has  exchanged  his  living  for  a  year,  on  account  of  his 
wife's  health,  and  rather,  I  think  also,  with  the  wish  to  bring 
poor  Susan  nearer  to  Laughton,  in  the  chance  of  her  uncle 
seeing  her.  But  you  are,  then  acquainted  with  Fielden?" 

"Acquainted! — my  best  friend.  He  was  my  tutor,  and  pre- 
pared me  for  Cains  College.  I  owe  him  not  only  the  little 
learning  I  have,  but  the  little  good  that  is  left  in  me.  I  owe 
to  him  apparently,  also,  whatever  chance  of  bettering  my 
prospects  may  arise  from  my  visit  at  Laughton." 

"Notwithstanding  our  intimacy,  we  have,  like  most  young 
men  not  related,  spoken  so  little  of  our  family  matters,  that  I 
do  not  now  understand  how  you  are  cousin  to  Susan;  nor 
what,  to  my  surprise  and  delight,  brought  you  hither  three 
days  ago." 

"Faith,  my  story  is  easier  to  explain  than  your  own,  Will- 
iam! Here  goes!" 

But  as  Ardworth's  recital  partially  involves  references  to 
family  matters  not  yet  sufficiently  known  to  the  reader,  we  must 
be  pardoned  if  we  assume  to  ourselves  his  task  of  narrating, 
and  necessarily  enlarge  on  his  details. 

The  branch  of  the  illustrious  family  of  St.  John  represented 
by  Sir  Miles  diverged  from  the  parent  stem  of  the  Lords  of 
Bletshoe.  With  them  it  placed  at  the  summit  of  its  pedigree 
the  name  of  William  de  St.  John,  the  Conqueror's  favorite  and 
trusted  warrior,  and  Oliva  de  Filgiers.  With  them  it  blazoned 
the  latter  alliance,  which  gave  to  Sir  Oliver  St.  John  the  lands 


LUCRETIA.  31 

of  Bletshoe  by  the  hand  of  Margeret  Beauchamp  (by  her  sec- 
ond marriage  with  the  Duke  of  Somerset,  grandmother  to  Henry 
VII).  In  the  following  generation  the  younger  son  of  a 
younger  son  had  founded,  partly  by  offices  of  state,  partly  by 
marriage  with  a  wealthy  heiress,  a  house  of  his  own ;  and  in 
the  reign  of  James  the  First  the  St.  Johns  of  Laughton  ranked 
amongst  the  chief  gentlemen  of  Hampshire.  From  that  time 
till  the  accession  of  George  III.,  the  family,  though  it  remained 
untitled,  had  added  to  its  consequence  by  inter-marriages  of 
considerable  dignity,  chosen,  indeed,  with  a  disregard  for 
money  uncommon  amongst  the  English  aristocracy,  so  that  the 
estate  was  but  little  enlarged  since  the  reign  of  James,  though 
profiting,  of  course,  by  improved  cultivation  and  the  different 
value  of  money.  On  the  other  hand,  perhaps  there  were 
scarcely  ten  families  in  the  country  who  could  boast  of  a  sim- 
ilar directness  of  descent  on  all  sides  from  the  proudest  and 
noblest  aristocracy  of  the  soil:  and  Sir  Miles  St.  John  by 
blood  was,  almost  at  the  distance  of  eight  centuries,  as  pure  a 
Norman  as  his  ancestral  William.  His  grandfather,  neverthe- 
less, had  deviated  from  the  usual  disinterested  practice  of  the 
family,  and  had  married  an  heiress,  who  brought  the  quarter- 
ings  of  Vernon  to  the  crowded  escutcheon,  and  with  these  quar- 
terings  an  estate  of  some  £4000  a  year,  popularly  known  by  the 
name  of  Vernon  Grange.  This  rare  occurrence  did  not  add  to 
the  domestic  happiness  of  the  contracting  parties,  nor  did  it 
lead  to  the  ultimate  increase  of  the  Laughton  possessions. 
Two  sons  were  born.  To  the  elder  was  destined  the  father's 
inheritance,  to  the  younger  the  maternal  property.  One  house 
is  not  large  enough  for  two  heirs.  Nothing  could  exceed  the 
pride  of  the  father  as  a  St.  John,  except  the  pride  of  the 
mother  as  a  Vernon.  Jealousies  between  the  two  sons  began 
early,  and  rankled  deep ;  nor  was  there  peace  at  Laughton  till 
the  younger  had  carried  away  from  its  rental  the  lands  of  Ver- 
non Grange ;  and  the  elder  remained  just  where  his  predeces- 
sors stood  in  the  point  of  possessions — sole  lord  of  Laughton 
sole.  The  elder  son,  Sir  Miles's  father,  had  been,  indeed,  so 
chafed  by  the  rivalry  with  his  brother,  that  in  disgust  he  had 
run  away,  and  thrown  himself,  at  the  age  of  fourteen,  into  the 
navy.  By  accident  or  by  merit  he  rose  high  in  that  profession, 
acquired  name  and  fame,  and  lost  an  eye  and  an  arm, — for 
which  he  was  gazetted,  at  the  same  time,  an  admiral  and  a 
baronet. 

Thus  mutilated  and  dignified,  Sir  George  St.  John  retired 
from   the  profession;    and   finding   himself    unmarried,    and 


32  LUCRETIA. 

haunted  by  the  apprehension  that  if  he  died  childless,  Laugh- 
ton  would  pass  to  his  brother's  heirs,  he  resolved  upon  con- 
signing his  remains  to  the  nuptial  couch,  previous  to  the  surer 
peace  of  the  family  vault.  At  the  age  of  fifty-nine  the  grim 
veteran  succeeded  in  finding  a  young  lady  of  unblemished 
descent,  and  much  marked  with  the  small-pox,  who  consented 
to  accept  the  only  hand  which  Sir  George  had  to  offer.  From 
this  marriage  sprang  a  numerous  family ;  but  all  died  in  early 
childhood,  frightened  to  death,  said  the  neighbors,  by  their 
tender  parents  (considered  the  ugliest  couple  in  the  county), 
except  one  boy  (the  present  Sir  Miles)  and  one  daughter,  many 
years  younger,  destined  to  become  Lucretia's  mother.  Sir 
Miles  came  early  into  his  property;  and  although  the  soften- 
ing advance  of  civilization,  with  the  liberal  effects  of  travel, 
and  a  long  residence  in  cities,  took  from  him  that  provincial 
austerity  of  pride  which  is  only  seen  in  stanch  perfection 
amongst  the  lords  of  a  village,  he  was  yet  little  less  susceptible 
to  the  duties  of  maintaining  his  lineage  pure  as  its  representa- 
tion had  descended  to  him,  than  the  most  superb  of  his  prede- 
cessors. But  owing,  it  was  said  to  an  early  disappointment, 
during  youth  and  manhood,  a  roving  and  desultory  life,  and 
so  put  off  from  year  to  year  the  grand  experiment  matrimonial, 
until  he  arrived  at  old  age,  with  the  philosophical  determina- 
tion to  select  from  the  other  branches  of  his  house  the  successor 
to  the  heritage  of  St.  John.  In  thus  arrogating  to  himself  a 
right  to  neglect  his  proper  duties  as  head  of  a  family,  he  found 
his  excuse  in  adopting  his  niece  Lucretia.  His  sister  had 
chosen  for  her  first  husband  a  friend  and  neighbor  of  his  own, 
a  younger  son,  of  unexceptional  birth,  and  of  very  agreeable 
manners  in  society.  But  this  gentleman  contrived  to  render 
her  life  so  miserable  that,  though  he  died  fifteen  months  after 
their  marriage,  his  widow  could  scarcely  be  expected  to  mourn 
long  for  him.  A  year  after  Mr.  Clavering's  death  Mrs.  Claver- 
ing  married  again,  under  the  mistaken  notion  that  she  had  the 
right  to  choose  for  herself.  She  married  Dr.  Mivers,  the  provin- 
cial physician  who  had  attended  her  husband  in  his  last  illness — 
a  gentleman  by  education,  manners,  and  profession,  but  un- 
happily the  son  of  a  silk-mercer.  Sir  Miles  never  forgave  this 
connection.  By  her  first  marriage  Sir  Miles's  sister  had  one 
daughter,  Lucretia;  by  her  second  marriage,  another  daugh- 
ter, named  Susan.  She  survived  somewhat  more  than  a  year 
the  birth  of  the  latter:  on  her  death  Sir  Miles  formally 
(through  his  agent)  applied  to  Dr.  Mivers  for  his  eldest  niece, 
Lucretia  Clavering,  and  the  physician  did  not  think  himself 


LUCRETIA.  33 

justified  in  withholding  from  her  the  probable  advantages  of  a 
transfer  from  his  own  roof  to  that  of  her  wealthy  uncle.  He 
himself  had  been  no  worldly  gainer  by  his  connection ;  his  prac- 
tice had  suffered  materially  from  the  sympathy  which  was  felt 
by  the  county  families  for  the  supposed  wrongs  of  Sir  Miles 
St.  John,  who  was  personally  not  only  popular,  but  esteemed, 
nor  less  so  on  account  of  his  pride :  too  dignified  to  refer  even 
to  his  domestic  annoyances,  except  to  his  most  familiar  asso- 
ciates— to  them,  indeed,  Sir  Miles  had  said  briefly,  that  he 
considered  a  physician  who  abused  his  entrance  into  a  noble 
family  by  stealing  into  its  alliance,  was  a  character  in  whose 
punishment  all  society  had  an  interest.  The  words  were  re- 
peated; they  were  thought  just.  Those  who  ventured  to  sug- 
gest that  Mrs.  Clavering,  as  a  widow,  was  a  free  agent,  were 
regarded  with  suspicion.  It  was  the  time  when  French  princi- 
ples were  just  beginning  to  be  held  in  horror,  especially  in  the 
provinces,  and  when  everything  that  encroached  upon  the 
rights  and  prejudices  of  the  high-born  was  called  "a  French 
principle."  Dr.  Mivers  was  as  much  scouted  as  if  he  had  been 
a  sans-culotte.  Obliged  to  quit  the  country,  he  settled  at  a  dis- 
tance; but  he  had  a  career  to  commence  again;  his  wife's 
death  enfeebled  his  spirits,  and  damped  his  exertions.  He  did 
little  more  than  earn  a  bare  subsistence,  and  died  at  last,  when 
his  only  daughter  was  fourteen,  poor  and  embarassed.  On  his 
death-bed  he  wrote  a  letter  to  Sir  Miles,  reminding  him  that, 
after  all,  Susan  was  his  sister's  child;  gently  vindicating  him- 
self from  the  unmerited  charge  of  treachery  which  had  blasted 
his  fortunes,  .and  left  his  orphan  penniless;  and  closing  with  a 
touching,  yet  a  manly,  appeal  to  the  sole  relative  left  to  be- 
friend her.  The  clergyman  who  had  attended  him  in  his  dying 
moments  took  charge  of  this  letter;  he  brought  it  in  person  to 
Laughton,  and  delivered  it  to  Sir  Miles.  Whatever  his  errors, 
the  old  Baronet  was  no  common  man.  He  was  not  vindictive, 
though  he  could  not  be  called  forgiving.  He  had  considered 
his  conduct  to  his  sister  a  duty  owed  to  his  name  and  ances- 
tors; she  had  placed  herself  and  her  youngest  child  out  of  the 
pale  of  his  family.  He  would  not  receive  as  his  niece  the 
granddaughter  of  a  silk-mercer.  The  relationship  was  extinct, 
as  in  certain  countries  nobility  is  forfeited  by  a  union  with  an 
inferior  class.  But,  niece  or  not,  here  was  a  claim  to  human- 
ity and  benevolence;  and  never  yet  had  appeal  been  made  by 
suffering  to  his  heart  and  purse  in  vain. 

He  bowed  his  head  over  the  letter  as  his  eye  came  to  the 
last  line,  and  remained  silent  so  long  that  the  clergyman,  at 


34  LUCRETIA. 

last,  moved  and  hopeful,  approached  and  took  his  hand.  It 
was  the  impulse  of  a  good  man  and  a  good  priest.  Sir  Miles 
looked  up  in  surprise;  but  the  calm,  pitying  face  bent  on  him 
repelled  all  return  of  pride. 

"Sir,"  he  said  tremulously,  and  he  pressed  the  hand  that 
grasped  his  own,  "I  thank  you.  I  am  not  fit  at  this  moment 
to  decide  what  to  do:  to-morrow,  you  shall  know.  And  the 
man  died  poor?  Not  in  want,  not  in  want?" 

"Comfort  'yourself,  worthy  sir;  he  had,  at  the  last,  all  that 
sickness  and  death  require,  except  one  assurance,  which  I 
ventured  to  whisper  to  him — I  trust  not  too  rashly — that  his 
daughter  would  not  be  left  unprotected.  And  I  pray  you  to  re- 
flect, my  dear  sir,  that — " 

Sir  Miles  did  not  wait  for  the  conclusion  of  the  sentence ; 
he  rose  abruptly,  and  left  the  room.  Mr.  Fielden  (so  the  good 
priest  was  named)  felt  confident  of  the  success  of  his  mission ; 
but,  to  win  it  the  more  support,  he  sought  Lucretia.  She  was 
then  seventeen :  it  is  an  age  when  the  heart  is  peculiarly  open 
to  the  household  ties — to  the  memory  of  a  mother — to  the  sweet 
name  of  sister.  He  sought  this  girl ;  he  told  his  tale,  and 
pleaded  the  sister's  cause.  Lucretia  heard  in  silence;  neither 
eye  nor  lip  betrayed  emotion;  but  her  color  went  and  came. 
This  was  the  only  sign  that  she  Avas  moved:  moved,  but  how? 
Fielden's  experience  in  the  human  heart  could  not  guess. 
When  he  had  done,  she  went  quietly  to  her  desk  (it  was  in  her 
own  room  that  the  conference  took  place),  she  unlocked  it  with 
a  deliberate  hand,  she  took  from  it  a  pocket-book  and  a  case 
of  jewels,  which  Sir  Miles  had  given  her  on  her  last  birthday. 
"Let  my  sister  have  these — while  I  live  she  shall  not  want!" 

"My  dear  young  lady,  it  is  not  these  things  that  she  asks 
from  you ;  it  is  your  affection,  your  sisterly  heart,  your  inter- 
cession with  her  natural  protector;  these,  in  her  name,  I  ask 
for — non  gemmis  neque  ptirpurd  venale,  nee  auro  !  " 

Lucretia  then,  still  without  apparent  emotion,  raised  to  the 
good  man's  face,  deep,  penetrating,  but  unrevealing  eyes,  and 
said  slowly: 

"Is  my  sister  like  my  mother,  who,  they  say,  was  handsome?" 

Much  startled  by  this  question,  Fielden  answered:  "I  never 
saw  your  mother,  my  dear;  but  your  sister  gives  promise  of 
more  than  common  comeliness." 

Lucretia's  brows  grew  slightly  compressed.  "And  her  edu- 
cation has  been,  of  course,  neglected?" 

"Certainly,  in  some  points — mathematics,  for  instance,  and 
theology.  But  she  knows  what  ladies  generally  know :  French 


LUCRETIA.  35 

and  Italian,  and  such  like.  Dr.  Mivers  was  not  unlearned  in 
the  polite  letters.  Oh,  trust  me,  my  dear  young  lady,  she  will 
not  disgrace  your  family ;  she  will  justify  your  uncle's  favor. 
Plead  for  her!"  and  the  good  man  clasped  his  hands. 

Lucretia's  eyes  fell  musingly  on  the  ground;  but  she  resumed, 
after  a  short  pause : 

"What  does  my  uncle  himself  say?" 

"Only  that  he  will  decide  to-morrow." 

"I  will  see  him"  ;  and  Lucretia  left  the  room  as  for  that  object. 
But  when  she  had  gained  the  stairs,  she  paused  at  the  large 
embayed  casement,  which  formed  a  niche  in  the  landing-place, 
and  gazed  over  the  broad  domains  beyond;  a  stern  smile  set- 
tled, then,  upon  her  lips;  the  smile  seemed  to  say:  "In  this 
inheritance  I  will  have  no  rival." 

Lucretia's  influence  with  Sir  Miles  was  great;  but  here  it 
was  not  needed.  Before  she  saw  him  he  had  decided  on  his 
course.  Her  precocious,  and  apparently  intuitive,  knowledge 
of  character  detected,  at  a  glance,  the  safety  with  which  she 
might  intercede.  She  did  so,  and  was  chid  into  silence. 

The  next  morning  Sir  Miles  took  the  priest's  arm  and  walked 
with  him  into  the  gardens. 

"Mr.  Fielden,"  he  said,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  has  chosen 
his  course,  and  deprecates  all  attempt  to  make  him  swerve  from 
it,  "if  I  followed  my  own  selfish  wishes,  I  should  take  home 
this  poor  child.  Stay,  sir,  and  hear  me:  I  am  no  hypocrite, 
and  I  speak  honestly ;  I  like  young  faces— I  have  no  family  of 
my  own;  I  love  Lucretia,  and  I  am  proud  of  her,  but  a  girl 
brought  up  in  adversity  might  be  a  better  nurse,  and  a  more 
docile  companion — let  that  pass.  I  have  reflected,  and  I  feel 
that  I  cannot  set  to  Lucretia — set  to  children  unborn — the  ex- 
ample of  indifference  to  a  name  degraded  and  a  race  adulter- 
ated :  you  may  call  this  pride,  or  prejudice — I  view  it  differ- 
ently. There  are  duties  due  from  an  individual,  duties  due 
from  a  nation,  duties  due  from  a  family;  as  my  ancestors 
thought,  so  think  I.  They  left  me  the  charge  of  their  name,  as 
the  fief-rent  by  which  I  hold  their  lands.  'Sdeath,  sir!  pardon 
me  the  expletive! — I  was  about  to  say,  that  if  I  am  now  a 
childless  old  man,  it  is  because  I  have  myself  known  tempta- 
tion, and  resisted.  I  loved,  and  denied  myself  what  I  believed 
my  best  chance  of  happiness,  because  the  object  of  my  attach- 
ment was  not  my  equal.  That  was  a  bitter  struggle;  I  tri- 
umphed, and  I  rejoice  at  it,  though  the  result  was  to  leave  all 
thoughts  of  wedlock  elsewhere  odious  and  repugnant.  '  These 
principles  of  action  have  made  a  part  of  my  creed  as  gentleman, 


36  LUCRET1A. 

if  not  as  Christian — now,  to  the  point.  I  beseech  you  to 
find  a  fitting  and  reputable  home  for  Miss — Miss  Mivers  (the 
lip  slightly  curled  as  the  name  was  said) ;  I  shall  provide  suit- 
ably for  her  maintenance.  When  she  marries  I  will  dower  her, 
provided  only,  and  always,  that  her  choice  fall  upon  one  who 
will  not  still  further  degrade  her  lineage  on  her  mother's  side, — 
in  a  word,  if  she  select  a  gentleman.  Mr.  Fielden,  on  this  sub- 
ject I  have  no  more  to  say." 

In  vain  the  good  clergyman,  whose  very  conscience,  as  well 
as  reason,  was  shocked  by  the  deliberate  and  argumentative 
manner  with  which  the  Baronet  had  treated  the  abandonment 
of  his  sister's  child  as  an  absolutely  moral,  almost  religious, 
duty — -in  vain  he  exerted  himself  to  repel  such  sophisms,  and 
put  the  matter  in  its  true  light.  It  was  easy  for  him  to  move 
Sir  Miles' s  heart — that  was  very  gentle — that  was  moved  al- 
ready ;  but  the  crocthet  in  his  head  was  impregnable.  The 
more  touchingly  he  painted  poor  Susan's  unfriended  youth, 
her  sweet  character,  and  promising  virtues,  the  more  Sir  Miles 
St.  John  considered  himself  a  martyr  to  his  principles,  and  the 
more  obstinate  in  the  martyrdom  he  became.  "Poor  thing! 
poor  child!"  he  said  often,  and  brushed  a  tear  from  his  eyes; 
"a  thousand  pities!  Well,  well,  I  hope  she  will  be  happy! 
Mind,  money  shall  never  stand  in  the  way  if  she  have  a  suit- 
able offer!"  This  was  all  the  worthy  clergyman,  after  an  hour's 
eloquence,  could  extract  from  him.  Out  of  breath,  and  out  of 
patience,  he  gave  in  at  last ;  and  the  Baronet,  still  holding  his 
reluctant  arm,  led  him  back  towards  the  house.  After  a  pro- 
longed pause  Sir  Miles  said  abruptly:  "I  have  been  thinking 
that  I  may  have  unwittingly  injured  this  man — this  Mivers — 
while  I  deemed  only  that  he  injured  me.  As  to  reparation  to 
his  daughter,  that  is  settled ;  and,  after  all,  though  I  do  not 
publicly  acknowledge  her,  she  is  half  my  own  niece." 

"Half?" 

"Half — the  father's  side  don't  count,  of  course ;  and,  rigidly 
speaking,  the  relationship  is,  perhaps,  forfeited  on  the  other. 
However,  that  half  of  it  I  grant.  Zooks,  sir,  I  say  I  grant  it!  I 
beg  you  ten  thousand  pardons  for  my  vehemence.  To  return, 
perhaps  I  can  show  at  least  that  I  bear  no  malice  to  this  poor 
doctor.  He  has  relations  of  his  own — silk-mercers — trade 
has  reverses.  How  are  they  off?" 

Perfectly  perplexed  by  this  very  contradictory  and  paradoxi- 
cal, yet,  to  one  better  acquainted  with  Sir  Miles,  very  charac- 
teristic benevolence,  Fielden  was  some  time  before  he  an- 
swered. "Those  members  of  Dr.  Mivers's  family  who  are  in 


LUCRETIA.  37 

trade  are  sufficiently  prosperous;  they  have  paid  his  debts; 
t/iey,  Sir  Miles,  will  receive  his  daughter." 

"By  no  means!"  cried  Sir  Miles  quickly;  then  recovering 
himself,  he  added,  "or,  if  you  think  that  advisable,  of  course 
all  interference  on  my  part  is  withdrawn." 

"festina  lente  !  Not  so  quick,  Sir  Miles.  I  do  not  yet  say 
that  it  is  advisable — not  because  they  are  silk-mercers,  the 
which,  I  humbly  conceive,  is  no  sin  to  exclude  them  from  grati- 
tude for  their  proffered  kindness — but  because  Susan,  poor 
child !  having  been  brought  up  in  different  habits,  may  feel  a 
little  strange  at  least  at  first,  with — " 

"Strange,  yes;  I  should  hope  so!"  interrupted  Sir  Miles, 
taking  snuff  with  much  energy;  "and,  by  the  way,  I  am  think- 
ing that  it  would  be  well  if  you  and  Mrs.  Fielden — you  are  mar- 
ried, sir?  That  is  right — clergyman  all  marry !  If  you  and  Mrs. 
Fielden  would  take  charge  of  her  yourselves,  it  would  be  a  great 
comfort  to  me  to  think  her  so  well  placed.  We  differ,  sir — 
but  I  respect  you.  Think  of  this.  Well,  then,  the  doctor  has 
left  no  relations  that  I  can  aid  in  any  way." 

"Strange  man!"  muttered  Fielden.  "Yes;  I  must  not  let 
one  poor  youth  lose  the  opportunity  offered  by  your — your — " 

"Never  mind  what — proceed — one  poor  youth;  in  the  shop, 
of  course?" 

"No;  and  by  his  father's  side  (since  you  so  esteem  such 
vanities)  of  an  ancient  family — a  sister  of  Dr.  Mivers  married 
Captain  Ardworth." 

"Ard worth — a  goodish  name — Ardworth  of  Yorkshire." 

"Yes,  of  that  family.  It  was,  of  course,  an  imprudent  mar- 
riage, contracted  while  he  was  only  an  ensign.  His  family  did 
not  reject  him,  Sir  Miles." 

"Sir,  Ardworth  is  a  good  squire's  family,  but  the  name  is 
Saxon ;  there  is  no  difference  in  race  between  the  head  of  the 
Ardworths,  if  he  were  a  duke,  and  my  gardener,  John  Hodge — 
Saxon  and  Saxon,  both.  His  family  did  not  reject  him — go 
on." 

"But  he  was  a  younger  son  in  a  large  family — himself  and 
his  wife  have  known  all  the  distresses  common,  they  tell  me,  to 
the  poverty  of  a  soldier,  who  has  no  resource  but  his  pay. 
They  have  a  son ;  Dr.  Mivers — though  so  poor  himself — took 
this  boy,  for  he  loved  his  sister  dearly,  and  meant  to  bring  him 
up  to  his  own  profession.  Death  frustrated  this  intention. 
The  boy  is  high-spirited  and  deserving." 

"Let  his  education  be  completed — send  him  to  the  univer- 
sity; and  I  will  see  that  he  is  put  into  some  career  of  which  his 


38  LUCRETIA. 

father's  family  would  approve.  You  need  not  mention  to  any 
one  my  intentions  in  this  respect,  not  even  to  the  lad.  And 
now,  Mr.  Fielden,  I  have  done  my  duty — at  least,  I  think  so. 
The  longer  you  honor  my  house  the  more  I  shall  be  pleased 
and  grateful ;  but  this  topic,  allow  me  most  respectfully  to  say, 
needs  and  bears  no  further  comment.  Have  you  seen  the  last 
news  from  the  army?" 

"The  army! — oh,  fie,  Sir  Miles,  I  must  speak  one  word 
more — may  not  my  poor  Susan  have,  at  least,  the  comfort  to 
embrace  her  sister?" 

Sir  Miles  mused  a  moment,  and  struck  his  crutch-stick  thrice 
firmly  on  the  ground. 

"I  see  no  great  objection  to  that;  but,  by  the  address  of  this 
letter,  the  poor  girl  is  too  far  from  Laughton  to  send  Lucretia 
to  her." 

"I  can  obviate  that  objection,  Sir  Miles.  It  is  my  wish  to 
continue  to  Susan  her  present  home  amongst  my  own  children — 
my  wife  loves  her  dearly ;  and  had  you  consented  to  give  her 
the  shelter  of  your  own  roof,  I  am  sure  I  should  not  have  seen 
a  smile  in  the  house  for  a  month  after.  If  you  permit  this 
plan,  as  indeed  you  honored  me  by  suggesting  it,  I  can  pass 
through  Southampton,  on  my  way  to  my  own  living  in  Devon- 
shire, and  Miss  Clavering  can  visit  her  sister  there." 

"Let  it  be  so,"  said  Sir  Miles  briefly;  and  so  the  conversa- 
tion closed. 

Some  weeks  afterwards  Lucretia  went  in  her  uncle's  carriage, 
with  four  post-horses,  with  her  maid  and  her  footman — went  in 
the  state  and  pomp  of  heiress  to  Laughton — to  the  small  lodg- 
ing-house in  which  the  kind  pastor  crowded  his  children  and 
his  young  guest.  She  stayed  there  some  days.  She  did  not 
weep  when  she  embraced  Susan :  she  did  not  weep  when  she 
took  leave  of  her ;  but  she  showed  no  want  of  actual  kindness, 
though  the  kindness  was  formal  and  stately.  On  her  return 
Sir  Miles  forbore  to  question  ;  but  he  looked  as  if  he  expected, 
and  would  willingly  permit,  her  to  speak  on  what  might  natur- 
ally be  uppermost  at  her  heart.  Lucretia,  however,  remained 
silent,  till  at  last  the  Baronet  coloring,  as  if  ashamed  of  his 
curiosity,  said: 

"Is  your  sister  like  your  mother?" 

"You  forget,  sir,  I  can  have  no  recollection  of  my 
mother." 

"Your  mother  had  a  strong  family  likeness  to  myself." 

"She  is  not  like  you — they  say  she  is  like  Dr.  Mivers." 

"Oh!"  said  the  Baronet,  and  he  asked  no  more.     The  sis- 


LUCRETIA.  39 

ters  did  not  meet  again :  a  few  letters  passed  between  them, 
but  the  correspondence  gradually  ceased. 

Young  Ardworth  went  to  college,  prepared  by  Mr.  Fielden, 
who  was  no  ordinary  scholar,  and  an  accurate  and  profound 
mathematician — a  more  important  requisite  than  classical  learn- 
ing in  a  tutor  for  Cambridge.  But  Ardworth  was  idle,  and 
perhaps  even  dissipated.  He  took  a  common  degree,  and  made 
some  debts,  which  were  paid  by  Sir  Miles  without  a  murmur. 
A  few  letters  then  passed  between  the  Baronet  and  the  clergy- 
man as  to  Ardworth's  future  destiny ;  the  latter  owned  that 
his  pupil  was  not  persevering  enough  for  the  Bar  nor  steady 
enough  for  the  Church.  These  were  no  great  faults  in  Sir 
Miles's  eyes.  He  resolved,  after  an  effort,  to  judge  himself  of 
the  capacities  of  the  young  man,  and  so  came  the  invitation  to 
Laughton.  Ardworth  was  greatly  surprised  when  Fielden  com- 
municated to  him  this  invitation,  for  hitherto  he  had  not  con- 
ceived the  slightest  suspicion  of  his  benefactor — he  had  rather, 
and  naturally,  supposed  that  some  relation  of  his  father's  had 
paid  for  his  maintenance  at  the  university ;  and  he  knew 
enough  of  the  family  history  to  look  upon  Sir  Miles  as  the 
proudest  of  men.  How  was  it,  then,  that  he,  who  would  not 
receive  the  daughter  of  Dr.  Mivers,  his  own  niece,  would  in- 
vite the  nephew  of  Dr.  Mivers,  who  was  no  relation  to  him? 
However,  his  curiosity  was  excited,  and  Fielden  was  urgent  that 
he  should  go ;  to  Laughton,  therefore,  had  he  gone. 

We  have  now  brought  down  to  the  opening  of  our  narrative 
the  general  records  of  the  family  it  concerns ;  we  have  reserved 
our  account  of  the  rearing  and  the  character  of  the  personage 
most  important,  perhaps,  in  the  development  of  its  events — 
Lucretia  Clavering;  in  order  to  place  singly  before  the  reader 
the  portrait  of  her  dark,  misguided,  and  ill-boding  youth. 


CHAPTER    II. 

LUCRETIA. 

WHEN  Lucretia  first  came  to  the  house  of  Sir  Miles  St.  John 
she  was  an  infant  about  four  years  old.  The  Baronet  then 
lived  principally  in  London,  with  occasional  visits  rather  to  the 
Continent  or  a  watering-place,  than  to  his  own  family  mansion. 
He  did  not  pay  any  minute  attention  to  his  little  ward — satisfied 
that  her  nurse  was  sedulous,  and  her  nursery  airy  and  com- 
modious. When  at  the  age  of  seven  she  began  to  interest  him, 
and  he  himself,  approaching  old  age,  began  seriously  to  consider 


40  LUCRETIA. 

whether  he  should  select  her  as  his  heiress,  for  hitherto  he  had 
not  formed  any  decided  or  definite  notions  on  the  matter — he 
was  startled  by  a  temper  so  vehement,  so  self-willed,  and  stern- 
ly imperious,  so  obstinately  bent  upon  attaining  its  object,  so 
indifferently  contemptuous  of  warning,  reproof,  coaxing,  or 
punishment,  that  her  governess  honestly  came  to  him  in  despair. 
The  management  of  this  unmanageable  child  interested  Sir 
Miles.  It  caused  him  to  think  of  Lucretia  seriously ;  it  caused 
him  to  have  her  much  in  his  society,  and  always  in  his  thoughts ; 
the  result  was,  that  by  amusing  and  occupying  him,  she  forced 
a  stronger  hold  on  his  affections  than  she  might  have  done  had 
she  been  more  like  the  ordinary  run  of  commonplace  children. 
Of  all  dogs,  there  is  no  dog  that  so  attaches  a  master  as  a  dog 
that  snarls  at  everybody  else, — that  no  other  hand  can  ven- 
ture to  pat  with  impunity;  of  all  horses,  there  is  none  which  so 
flatters  the  rider,  from  Alexander  downwards,  as  a  horse  that 
nobody  else  can  ride.  Extend  this  principle  to  the  human 
species,  and  you  may  understand  why  Lucretia  became  so  dear 
to  Sir  Miles  St.  John — she  got  at  his  heart  through  his  vanity. 
For  though  at  times  her  brow  darkened  and  her  eye  flashed 
even  at  his  remonstrance,  she  was  yet  no  sooner  in  his  society 
than  she  made  a  marked  distinction  between  him  and  the  sub- 
ordinates who  had  hitherto  sought  to  control  her.  Was  this 
affection?  He  thought  so.  Alas!  what  parent  can  trace  the 
workings  of  a  child's  mind — springs  moved  by  an  idle  word 
from  a  nurse,  a  whispered  conference  between  hirelings!  Was 
it  possible  that  Lucretia  had  not  often  been  menaced,  as  the 
direst  evil  that  could  befall  her,  with  her  uncle's  displeasure; 
that  long  before  she  could  be  sensible  of  mere  worldly  loss  or 
profit,  she  was  not  impressed  with  a  vague  sense  of  Sir  Miles's 
power  over  her  fate ;  nay,  when  trampling  in  childish  wrath  and 
scorn  upon  some  menial's  irritable  feelings,  was  it  possible 
that  she  had  not  been  told  that,  but  for  Sir  Miles,  she  would  be 
little  better  than  a  servant  herself?  Be  this  as  it  may,  all  weak- 
ness is  prone  to  dissimulate :  and  rare  and  happy  is  the  child 
whose  feelings  are  as  pure  and  transparent  as  the  fond  parent 
deems  them.  There  is  something  in  children,  too,  which  seems 
like  an  instinctive  deference  to  the  aristocratic  appearances 
which  sway  the  world.  Sir  Miles's  stately  person,  his  imposing 
dress,  the  respect  with  which  he  was  surrounded — all  tended 
to  beget  notions  of  superiority  and  power,  to  which  it  was  no 
shame  to  succumb,  as  it  was  to  Miss  Black,  the  governess, 
whom  the  maids  answered  pertly,  or  Martha,  the  nurse,  whom 
Miss  Black  snubbed  if  Lucretia  tore  her  frock, 


LUCRETiA.  4* 

Sir  Miles's  affection  once  won — his  penetration  not  perhaps 
blinded  to  her  more  evident  faults,  but  his  self-love  soothed 
towards  regarding  them  leniently — there  was  much  in  Lucre- 
tia's  external  gifts  which  justified  the  predilection  of  the 
haughty  man.  As  a  child,  she  was  beautiful,  and  perhaps, 
from  her  very  imperfections  of  temper,  her  beauty  had  that  air 
of  distinction  which  the  love  of  command  is  apt  to  confer.  If 
Sir  Miles  was  with  his  friends  when  Lucretia  swept  into  the 
room,  he  was  pleased  to  hear  them  call  her  their  little  "prin- 
cess," and  pleased  yet  more  at  a  certain  dignified  tranquillity  with 
which  she  received  their  caresses  or  their  toys,  and  which  he  re- 
garded as  the  sign  of  a  superior  mind :  nor  was  it  long,  in- 
deed, before  what  we  call  a  superior  mind  developed  itself  in 
the  young  Lucretia.  All  children  are  quick  till  they  are  set 
methodically  to  study;  but  Lucretia's  quickness  defied  even 
that  numbing  ordeal,  by  which  half  of  us  are  rendered  dunces. 
Rapidity  and  precision  in  all  the  tasks  set  to  her,  in  the  com- 
prehension of  all  the  explanations  given  to  her  questions,  evinced 
singular  powers  of  readiness  and  reasoning. 

As  she  grew  older  she  became  more  reserved  and  thoughtful. 
Seeing  but  few  children  of  her  own  age,  and  mixing  intimately 
with  none,  her  mind  was  debarred  from  the  usual  objects  which 
distract  the  vivacity,  the  restless  and  wondrous  observation,  of 
childhood.  She  came  in  and  out  of  Sir  Miles's  library  of  a 
morning,  or  his  drawing-room  of  an  evening  till  her  hour  for 
rest,  with  unquestioned  and  sometimes  unnoticed  freedom ; 
she  listened  to  the  conversation  around  her,  and  formed  their 
own  conclusions  unchecked.  It  has  a  great  influence  upon  a 
child,  whether  for  good  or  for  evil,  to  mix  early  and  habitually 
with  those  grown  up — for  good  to  the  mere  intellect  always ; 
the  evil  depends  upon  the  character  and  discretion  of  those 
the  child  sees  and  hears.  "Reverence  the  greatest  is  due  to 
children,"  exclaims  the  wisest  of  the  Romans;  *  that  is  to  say 
that  we  must  revere  the  candor  and  inexperience  and  innocence 
of  their  minds. 

Now  Sir  Miles's  habitual  associates  were  persons  of  the  world ; 
well-bred  and  decorous,  indeed,  before  children,  as  the  best  of 
the  old  school  were,  avoiding  all  anecdotes,  all  allusions,  for 
which  the  prudent  matron  would  send  her  girls  out  of  the  room; 
but,  with  that  reserve,  speaking  of  the  world  as  the  world  goes ; 
if  talking  of  young  A — ,  calculating  carelessly  what  he  would 
have  when  old  A — ,  his  father,  died;  naturally  giving  to  wealth 
and  station  and  ability  their  fixed  importance  in  life;  not 

*  Cicero.     The  sentiment  is  borrowed  by  Juvenal. 


4^  LUCRETIA. 

over-apt  to  single  out  for  eulogium  some  quiet  goodness ;  rather 
inclined  to  speak  with  irony  of  pretensions  to  virtue ;  rarely 
speaking  but  with  respect  of  the  worldly  seemings  which  rule 
mankind — all  these  had  their  inevitable  effect  upon  that  keen, 
quick,  yet  moody  and  reflective,  intellect. 

Sir  Miles  removed  at  last  to  Laughton.  He  gave  up  Lon- 
don— why,  he  acknowledged  not  to  himself;  but  it  was  because  he 
had  outlived  his  age — most  of  his  old  set  were  gone — new  hours, 
new  habits  had  stolen  in.  He  had  ceased  to  be  of  importance 
as  a  marrying  man,  as  a  personage  of  fashion  ;  his  health  was  im- 
paired ;  he  shrank  from  the  fatigues  of  a  contested  election  ;  he 
resigned  his  seat  in  Parliament  for  his  native  county,  and,  once 
settled  at  Laughton,  the  life  there  soothed  and  flattered  him — 
there,  all  his  former  claims  to  distinction  were  still  fresh.  He 
amused  himself  by  collecting,  in  his  old  halls  and  chambers, 
his  statues  and  picture?,  and  felt  that,  without  fatigue  or  trou- 
ble, he  was  a  greater  man  at  Laughton  in  his  old  age,  than  he 
had  been  in  London  during  his  youth. 

Lucretia  was  then  thirteen.  Three  years  afterwards  Olivier 
Dalibard  was  established  in  the  house,  and  from  that  time  a 
great  change  became  noticeable  in  her.  The  irregular  vehe- 
mence of  her  temper  gradually  subsided,  and  was  replaced  by  an 
habitual  self-command,  which  rendered  the  rare  deviations 
from  it  more  effective  and  imposing.  Her  pride  changed  its 
character  wholly  and  permanently ;  no  word,  no  look  of  scorn  to 
the  low-born  and  the  poor  escaped  her.  The  masculine  studies 
which  her  erudite  tutor  opened  to  a  grasping  and  inquisitive 
mind  elevated  her  very  errors  above  the  petty  distinctions  of  class. 
She  imbibed  earnestly  what  Dalibard  assumed  or  felt — the  more 
dangerous  pride  of  the  fallen  angel, — and  set  up  the  intellect 
as  a  deity.  All  belonging  to  the  mere  study  of  mind  charmed 
and  enchained  her;  but  active  and  practical  in  her  very  rev- 
eries, if  she  brooded,  it  was  to  scheme,  to  plot,  to  weave  web 
and  mesh,  and  to  smile  in  haughty  triumph  at  her  own  inge- 
nuity and  daring.  The  first  lesson  of  mere  worldly  wisdom 
teaches  us  to  command  temper;  it  was  worldly  wisdom  that 
made  the  once  impetuous  girl  calm,  tranquil,  and  serene.  Sir 
Miles  was  pleased  by  a  change  that  removed  from  Lucretia's  out- 
ward character  its  chief  blot ;  perhaps,  as  his  frame  declined,  he 
sighed  sometimes  to  think  that  with  so  much  majesty  there  ap- 
peared but  little  tenderness;  he  took,  however,  the  merits  with 
the  faults,  and  was  content  upon  the  whole. 

If  the  Provencal  had  taken  more  than  common  pains  with  his 
young  pupil,  the  pains  were  not  solely  disinterested.  In  plung- 


LUCRETIA.  43 

ing  her  mind  amidst  that  profound  corruption  which  belongs 
only  to  intellect  cultivated  in  scorn  of  good,  and  in  suppression 
of  heart,  he  had  his  own  views  to  serve.  He  watched  the  age 
when  the  passions  ripen ;  and  he  grasped  at  the  fruit  which 
his  training  sought  to  mature.  In  the  human  heart  ill  regu- 
lated there  is  a  dark  desire  for  the  forbidden.  This  Lucretia 
felt;  this  her  studies  cherished,  and  her  thoughts  brooded 
over.  She  detected,  with  the  quickness  of  her  sex,  the  precep- 
tor's stealthy  aim.  She  started  not  at  the  danger.  Proud  of 
her  mastery  over  herself,  she  rather  triumphed  in  luring  on 
into  weakness  this  master-intelligence  which  had  lighted  up 
her  own, — to  see  her  slave  in  her  teacher;  to  despise  or  to 
pity  him  whom  she  had  first  contemplated  with  awe.  And 
with  this  mere  pride  of  the  understanding  might  be  connected 
that  of  the  sex ;  she  had  attained  the  years  when  woman  is 
curious  to  know  and  to  sound  her  power.  To  inflame  Dali- 
bard's  cupidity  or  ambition  was  easy;  but  to  touch  his 
heart — that  marble  heart — this  had  its  dignity  and  its  charm. 
Strange  to  say,  she  succeeded.  The  passion,  as  well  as  inter- 
ests, of  this  dangerous  and  able  man  became  enlisted  in  his 
hopes ;  and  now  the  game  played  between  them  had  a  terror  in 
its  suspense ;  for  if  Dalibard  penetrated  not  into  the  recesses 
of  his  pupil's  complicated  nature,  she  was  far  from  having  yet 
sounded  the  hell  that  lay  black  and  devouring  beneath  his  own. 
Not  through  her  affections — those  he  scarce  hoped  for — but 
through  her  inexperience,  her  vanity,  her  passions,  he  contem- 
plated the  path  to  his  victory  over  her  soul  and  her  fate.  And 
so  resolute,  so  wily,  so  unscrupulous,  was  this  person  who  had 
played  upon  all  the  subtlest  keys  and  chords  in  the  scale  of 
turbulent  life,  that,  despite  the  lofty  smile  with  which  Lucretia 
at  length  heard  and  repelled  his  suit,  he  had  no  fear  of  the  ulti- 
mate issue,  when  all  his  projects  were  traversed,  all  his  mines 
and  stratagems  abruptly  brought  to  a  close,  by  an  event  which 
he  had  wholly  unforeseen — the  appearance  of  a  rival ;  the  ardent 
and  almost  purifying  love,  which,  escaping  awhile  from  all  the 
demons  he  had  evoked,  she  had,  with  a  girl's  frank  heart  and 
impulse,  conceived  for  Mainwaring.  And  here,  indeed,  was 
the  great  crisis  in  Lucretia's  life  and  destiny.  So  interwoven 
with  her  nature  had  become  the  hard  calculations  of  the  under- 
standing; so  habitual  to  her  now  was  the  zest  for  schem- 
ing which  revels  in  the  play  and  vivacity  of  intrigue  and  plot, 
and  which  Shakspeare  has,  perhaps,  intended  chiefly  to  de- 
pict in  the  villany  of  lago,  that  it  is  probable  Lucretia  could 
never  become  a  character  thoroughly  amiable  and  honest.  But 


44  LUCRETIA. 

with  a  happy  and  well-placed  love  her  ambition  might  have  had 
legitimate  vents;  her  restless  energies,  the  woman's  natural 
field  in  sympathies  for  another.  The  heart  once  opened  softens 
by  use :  gradually  and  unconsciously  the  interchange  of  affec- 
tion, the  companionship  with  an  upright  and  ingenious  mind  (for 
virtue  is  not  only  beautiful;  it  is  contagious)  might  have  had 
their  redeeming  and  hallowing  influence.  Happier,  indeed,  had 
it  been,  if  her  choice  had  fallen  upon  a  more  commanding  and 
lofty  nature.  But  perhaps  it  was  the  very  meekness  and  sus- 
ceptibility of  Mainwaring's  temper,  relieved  from  feebleness  by 
his  talents,  which,  once  in  play,  were  undeniably  great,  that 
pleased  her  by  contrast  with  her  own  hardness  oi  spirit  and 
despotism  of  will. 

That  Sir  Miles  should  have  been  blind  to  the  position  of  the 
lovers  is  less  disparaging  to  his  penetration  than  it  may  appear; 
for  the  very  imprudence  with  which  Lucretia  abandoned  her- 
self to  the  society  of  Mainwaring  during  his  visits  at  Laughton 
took  a  resemblance  to  candor.  Sir  Miles  knew  his  niece  to  be 
more  than  commonly  clever  and  well  informed ;  ;  that  she, 
like  him,  should  feel  that  the  conversation  of  a  superior  young 
man  was  a  relief  to  the  ordinary  babble  of  their  country  neigh- 
bors was  natural  enough ;  and  if  now  and  then  a  doubt,  a  fear, 
had  crossed  his  mind,  and  rendered  him  more  touched  than  he 
liked  to  own  by  Vernon's  remarks,  it  had  vanished  upon  per- 
ceiving that  Lucretia  never  seemed  a  shade  more  pensive  in 
Mainwaring's  absence.  The  listlessness  and  the  melancholy 
which  are  apt  to  accompany  love,  especially  where  unpropitious- 
ly placed,  were  not  visible  on  the  surface  of  this  strong  nature. 
In  truth,  once  assured  that  Mainwaring  returned  her  affection, 
Lucretia  reposed  on  the  future  with  a  calm  and  resolute  con- 
fidence; and  her  customary  dissimulation  closed  like  an  un- 
ruffled sea  over  all  the  under-currents  that  met  and  played  be- 
low. Still  Sir  Miles's  attention  once,  however  slightly,  aroused 
to  the  recollection  that  Lucretia  was  at  the  age  when  woman 
naturally  meditates  upon  love  and  marriage,  had  suggested, 
afresh  and  more  vividly,  a  project  which  had  before  been  in- 
distinctly conceived,  viz.,  the  union  of  the  divided  branches  of 
his  house,  by  the  marriage  of  the  last  male  of  the  Vernons  with 
the  heiress  of  the  St.  Johns.  Sir  Miles  had  seen  much  of  Ver- 
non  himself,  at  various  intervals:  he  had  been  present  at  his 
christening,  though  he  had  refused  to  be  his  godfather,  for 
fear  of  raising  undue  expectations ;  he  had  visited  and  munifi- 
cently "tipped"  him  at  Eton;  he  had  accompanied  him  to  his 
quarters  when  he  joined  the  Prince's  regiment;  he  had  come 


45 

often  in  contact  with  him,  when,  at  the  death  of  his  father,  Ver- 
non  retired  from  the  army  and  blazed  in  the  front  ranks  of 
metropolitan  fashion ;  he  had  given  him  counsel  and  had  even 
lent  him  money.  Vernon's  spendthrift  habits,  and  dissipated, 
if  not  dissolute,  life,  had  certainly  confirmed  the  old  Baronet 
in  his  intentions  to  trust  the  lands  of  Laughton  to  the  lesser 
risk  which  property  incurs  in  the  hands  of  a  female,  if  tightly 
settled  on  her,  than  in  the  more  colossal  and  multiform  lux- 
uries of  an  expensive  man ;  and  to  do  him  justice,  during  the 
flush  of  Vernon's  riotous  career,  he  had  shrunk  from  the 
thought  of  confiding  the  happiness  of  his  niece  to  so  unstable  a 
partner.  But  of  late,  whether  from  his  impaired  health,  or  his 
broken  fortunes,  Vernon's  follies  had  been  less  glaring.  He 
had  now  arrived  at  the  mature  age  of  thirty-three,  when  wild 
oats  may  reasonably  be  sown.  The  composed  and  steadfast 
character  of  Lucretia  might  serve  to  guide  and  direct  him :  and 
Sir  Miles  was  one  of  those  who  hold  the  doctrine  that  a  re- 
formed rake  makes  the  best  husband ;  add  to  this,  there  was 
nothing  in  Vernon's  reputation  (once  allowing  that  his  thirst 
for  pleasure  was  slaked)  which  could  excite  serious  apprehen- 
sions. Through  all  his  difficulties  he  had  maintained  his  honor 
unblemished ;  a  thousand  traits  of  amiability  and  kindness  of 
heart  made  him  popular  and  beloved.  He  was  nobody's  enemy 
but  his  own.  His  very  distresses — the  prospect  of  his  ruin,  if 
left  unassisted  by  Sir  Miles's  testamentary  dispositions — were 
arguments  in  his  favor.  And,  after  all,  though  Lucretia  was 
a  nearer  relation,  Vernon  was  in  truth  the  direct  male  heir,  and, 
according  to  the  usual  prejudices  of  family,  therefore,  the  fit- 
ter representative  of  the  ancient  line.  With  these  feelings  and 
views,  he  had  invited  Vernon  to  his  house,  and  we  have  seen  al- 
ready that  his  favorable  impressions  had  been  confirmed  by  the 
visit. 

And  here,  we  must  say,  that  Vernon  himself  had  been 
brought  up  in  boyhood  and  youth  to  regard  himself  the  pre- 
sumptive inheritor  of  Laughton.  It  had  been,  from  time  im- 
memorial, the  custom  of  the  St.  Johns  to  pass  by  the  claims  of 
females  in  the  settlement  of  the  entails;  from  male  to  male 
the  estate  had  gone — furnishing  warriors  to  the  army,  and 
senators  to  the  state.  And  if  when  Lucretia  first  came  to  Sir 
Miles's  house  the  bright  prospect  seemed  somewhat  obscure, 
still  the  mesalliance  of  the  mother,  and  Sir  Miles's  obstinate 
resentment  thereat,  seemed  to  warrant  the  supposition  that  he 
would  probably  only  leave  to  the  orphan  the  usual  portion  of  a 
daughter  of  the  house,  and  that  the  lands  would  go  in  their 


46  LUCREl-IA. 

ordinary  destination.  This  belief,  adopted  passively,  and  as  a 
thing  of  course,  had  had  a  very  prejudicial  effect  upon  Ver- 
non's  career.  What  mattered  that  he  over-enjoyed  his  youth; 
that  the  subordinate  property  of  the  Vernons,  a  paltry  four  or 
five  thousand  pounds  a  year,  went  a  little  too  fast — the  splen- 
did estates  of  Laughton  would  recover  all.  From  this  dream 
he  had  only  been  awakened  two  or  three  years  oetore  by  an 
attachment  he  had  formed  to  the  portionless  daughter  of  an 
earl ;  and  the  Grange  being  too  far  encumbered  to  allow  him 
the  proper  settlements  which  the  lady's  family  required,  it  be- 
came a  matter  of  importance  to  ascertain  Sir  Miles's  inten- 
tions. Too  delicate  himself  to  sound  them,  he  had  prevailed 
upon  the  earl,  who  was  well  acquainted  with  Sir  Miles,  to  take 
Laughton  in  his  way  to  his  own  seat  in  Dorsetshire,  and,  with- 
out betraying  the  grounds  of  his  interest  in  the  question,  learn 
carelessly,  as  it  were,  the  views  of  the  wealthy  man.  The 
result  had  been  a  severe  and  terrible  disappointment.  Sir  Miles 
,had  then  fully  determined  upon  constituting  Lucretia  his  heir- 
ess, and,  with  the  usual  openness  of  his  character,  he  had 
plainly  said  so,  upon  the  very  first  covert  and  polished  allusion 
to  the  subject  which  the  earl  slyly  made.  This  discovery,  in 
breaking  off  all  hopes  of  an  union  with  Lady  Mary  Stanville, 
had  crushed  more  than  mercenary  expectations.  It  affected, 
through  his  heart,  Vernon's  health  and  spirits;  it  rankled  deep 
and  was  resented  at  first  as  a  fatal  injury.  But  Vernon's  native 
nobility  of  disposition  gradually  softened  an  indignation  which 
his  reason  convinced  him  was  groundless  and  unjust.  Sir 
Miles  had  never  encouraged  the  expectations  which  Vernon's 
family  and  himself  had  unthinkingly  formed.  The  Baronet 
was  master  of  his  own  fortune,  and  after  all  was  it  not  more 
natural  that  he  snould  prefer  the  child  he  had  brought  up 
and  reared,  to  a  distant  relation,  little  more  than  an  acquain- 
tance, simply  because  man  succeeded  to  man  in  the  mouldy 
pedigree  of  the  St.  Johns?  And,  Mary  fairly  lost  to  him,  his 
constitutional  indifference  to  money,  a  certain  French  levity  of 
temper,  a  persuasion  that  his  life  was  nearing  its  wasted  close, 
had  left  him  without  regret,  as  without  resentment,  at  his  kins- 
man's decision.  His  boyish  affection  for  the  hearty,  generous 
old  gentleman  returned,  and  though  he  abhorred  the  country, 
he  had  without  a  single  interested  thought  or  calculation,  cor- 
dially accepted  the  Baronet's  hospitable  overtures,  and 
deserted,  for  the  wilds  of  Hampshire,  "the  sweet  shady  side  of 
Pall  Mall." 

We  may  now  enter  the  drawing-room  at  Laughton,  in  which 


LUCRETIA.  47 

were  already  assembled  several  of  the  families  residing  in  the 
more  immediate  neighborhood,  and  who  sociably  dropped  in 
to  chat  around  the  national  tea-table,  play  a  rubber  at  whist,  or 
make  up,  by  the  help  of  two  or  three  children  and  two  or  three 
grandpas,  a  merry  country  dance.  For,  in  that  happy  day. 
people  were  much  more  sociable  than  they  are  now,  in  the 
houses  of  our  rural  thanes.  Our  country  seats  became  bustl- 
ing and  animated  after  the  Birthday ;  many  even  of  the  more 
important  families  resided,  indeed,  all  the  year  round  on  their 
estates.  The  Continent  was  closed  to  us ;  the  fastidious  ex- 
clusiveness  which  comes  from  habitual  residences  in  cities  had 
not  made  that  demarcation  in  castes  and  in  talk,  between 
neighbor  and  neighbor,  which  exists  row.  Our  squires  were 
less  educated,  less  refined,  but  more  hospitable  and  unassum- 
ing. In  a  word,  there  was  what  does  not  exist  now,  except  in 
some  districts  remote  from  London,  a  rural  society  for  those 
who  sought  it. 

The  party,  as  we  enter,  is  grouped  somewhat  thus — but  first, 
we  must  cast  a  glance  at  the  room  itself,  which  rarely  failed  to 
be  the  first  object  to  attract  a  stranger's  notice.  It  was  a  long, 
and  not  particularly  well-proportioned,  apartment,  according, 
at  least,  to  modern  notions,  for  it  had  rather  the  appearance  of 
two  rooms  thrown  into  one.  At  the  distance  of  about  thirty- 
five  feet,  the  walls,  before  somewhat  narrow,  were  met  by  an 
arch,  supported  by  carved  pilasters,  which  opened  into  a  space 
nearly  double  the  width  of  the  previous  part  of  the  room,  with 
a  domed  ceiling,  and  an  embayed  window  of  such  depth,  that 
the  recess  almost  formed  a  chamber  in  itself.  But  both  these 
divisions  of  the  apartment  corresponded  exactly  in  point  of 
decoration ;  they  had  the  same  small  panelling,  painted  a  very 
light  green,  which  seemed  almost  white  by  candle-light,  each 
compartment  wrought  with  an  arabesque;  the  same  enriched 
frieze  and  cornice;  they  had  the  same  high  mantel-pieces, 
ascending  to  the  ceiling,  with  the  arms  of  St.  John  in  bold 
relief  They  had,  too,  the  same  old-fashioned  and  venerable 
furniture,  draperies  of  thick  figured  velvet,  with  immense 
chairs  and  sofas  to  correspond,  interspersed,  it  is  true,  with 
more  modern  and  commodious  inventions  of  the  upholsterer's 
art,  in  grave  stuffed  leather,  or  lively  chintz.  Two  windows, 
nearly  as  deep  as  that  in  the  further  division,  broke  the  outline 
of  the  former  one,  and  helped  to  give  that  irregular  and  nooky 
appearance  to  the  apartment  which  took  all  discomfort  from  its' 
extent,  and  furnished  all  convenience  for  solitary  study  or 
detached  flirtation.  With  little  respect  for  the  carved  work  of 


4&  LUCREtiA, 

the  panels,  the  walls  were  covered  with  pictures  brought  by  Sir 
Miles  from  Italy,  here  and  there  marble  busts  and  statues 
gave  lightness  to  the  character  of  the  room,  and  harmonized 
well  with  that  half-Italian  mode  of  decoration  which  belongs 
to  the  period  of  James  the  First.  The  shape  of  the  chamber, 
in  its  divisions,  lent  itself  admirably  to  that  friendly  and  sociable 
intermixture  of  amusements  which  reconciles  the  tastes  of 
young  and  old.  In  the  first  division,  near  the  fireplace,  Sir 
Miles,  seated  in  his  easy-chair,  and  sheltered  from  the  opening 
door  by  a  sevenfold  tapestry  screen,  was  still  at  chess  with  his 
librarian.  At  a  little  distance  a  middle-aged  gentleman,  and 
three  turbaned  matrons,  were  cutting  in  at  whist — shilling 
points — with  a  half-crown  bet,  optional,  and  not  much  ven- 
tured on.  On  tables,  drawn  into  the  recesses  of  the  windows, 
were  the  day's  newspapers,  Gilray's  caricatures,  the  last  new 
publications,  and  such  other  ingenious  suggestions  to  chit-chat. 
And  round  these  tables  grouped  those  who  had  not  yet  found 
elsewhere  their  evening's  amusement;  two  or  three  shy  young 
clergymen,  the  parish  doctor,  four  or  five  squires,  who  felt 
great  interest  in  politics,  but  never  dreamt  of  the  extravagance 
of  taking  in  a  daily  paper,  and  who  now,  monopolizing  all  the 
journals  they  could  find,  began  fairly  with  the  heroic  resolu- 
tion to  skip  nothing,  from  the  first  advertisement  to  the  print- 
er's name.  Amidst  one  of  these  groups  Mainwaring  had 
bashfully  ensconced  himself.  In  the  further  division,  the 
chandelier,  suspended  from  the  domed  ceiling,  threw  its  cheer- 
ful light  over  a  large  circular  table  below,  on  which  gleamed 
the  ponderous  tea-urn  of  massive  silver,  with  its  usual  accom- 
paniments. Nor  were  wanting  there,  in  addition  to  those  airy 
nothings,  sliced  infinitesimally,  from  a  French  roll,  the  more 
substantial,  and  now  exiled  cheer,  of  cakes — plum  and  seed, 
Yorkshire  and  saffron — attesting  the  light  hand  of  the  house- 
keeper, and  the  strong  digestion  of  the  guests.  Round  this 
table  were  seated,  in  full  gossip,  the  maids  and  the  matrons, 
with  a  light  sprinkling  of  the  bolder  young  gentlemen  who  had 
been  taught  to  please  the  fair.  The  warmth  of  the  evening 
allowed  the  upper  casement  to  be  opened  and  the  curtains 
drawn  aside,  and  the  July  moonlight  feebly  struggled  against 
the  blaze  of  the  lights  within.  At  this  table  it  was  Miss  Clav- 
ering's  obvious  duty  to  preside ;  but  that  was  a  complaisance 
to  which  she  rarely  condescended.  Nevertheless,  she  had  her 
own  way  of  doing  the  honor  of  her  uncle's  house,  which  was 
not  without  courtesy  and  grace ;  to  glide  from  one  to  the  other, 
exchange  a  few  friendly  words,  see  that  each  set  had  its  well- 


LUCRETIA.  49 

known  amusements,  and,  finally,  sit  quietly  down  to  converse 
with  some  who,  from  gravity  or  age,  appeared  most  to  neglect, 
or  be  neglected  by,  the  rest,  was  her  ordinary,  and  not  unpopu- 
lar mode  of  welcoming  the  guests  at  Laughton — not  unpopu- 
lar, for  she  thus  avoided  all  interference  with  the  flirta- 
tions and  conquests  of  humbler  damsels,  whom  her  station  and 
her  endowments  might  otherwise  have  crossed  or  humbled, 
while  she  ensured  the  good  word  of  the  old,  to  whom  the  young 
are  seldom  so  attentive.  But  if  a  stranger  of  more  than  pro- 
vincial repute  chanced  to  be  present ;  if  some  stray  member  of 
Parliament,  or  barrister  on  the  circuit,  or  wandering  artist,  ac- 
companied any  of  the  neighbors,  to  him  Lucretia  gave  more 
earnest  and  undivided  attention.  Him  she  sought  to  draw  into 
a  conversation  deeper  than  the  usual  babble,  and  with  her  calm, 
searching  eyes,  bent  on  him  while  he  spoke,  seemed  to  fathom 
the  intellect  she  set  in  play.  But  as  yet  this  evening  she  had 
not  made  her  appearance — a  sin  against  etiquette  very  unusual 
in  her.  Perhaps  her  recent  conversation  with  Dalibard  had 
absorbed  her  thoughts  to  forgetfulness  of  the  less  important 
demands  on  her  attention.  Her  absence  had  not  interfered 
with  the  gayety  at  the  tea-table,  which  was  frank  even  to 
noisiness ;  as  it  centered  round  the  laughing  face  of  Ardworth, 
who,  though  unknown  to  most  or  all  of  the  ladies  present,  be- 
yond a  brief  introduction  to  one  or  two  of  the  first  comers  from 
Sir  Miles  (as  the  host  had  risen  from  his  chess  to  bid  them 
welcome),  had  already  contrived  to  make  himself  perfectly  at 
home,  and  outrageously  popular.  Niched  between  two  bounc- 
ing lasses  he  had  commenced  acquaintance  with  them  in  a 
strain  of  familiar  drollery  and  fun,  which  had  soon  broadened 
its  circle,  and  now  embraced  the  whole  group  in  the  happy 
contagion  of  good  humor  and  young  animal  spirits.  Gabriel, 
allowed  to  sit  up  later  than  his  usual  hour,  had  not,  as  might 
have  been  expected,  attached  himself  to  this  circle,  nor  in- 
deed to  any ;  he  might  be  seen  moving  quietly  about — now 
contemplating  the  pictures  on  the  wall  with  a  curious  eye ;  now 
pausing  at  the  whist  table  and  noting  the  game  with  the  inter- 
est of  an  embryo  gamester ;  now  throwing  himself  on  an 
ottoman,  and  trying  to  coax  towards  him  Dash  or  Ponto — 
trying  in  vain,  for  both  the  dogs  abhorred  him;  yet  still, 
through  all  this  general  movement,  had  any  one  taken  the 
pains  to  observe  him  closely,  it  might  have  been  sufficiently 
apparent  that  his  keen,  bright,  restless  eye,  from  the  corner 
of  its  long,  sly  lids,  roved  chiefly  towards  the  three  persons 
whom  he  approached  the  least — his  father,  Mainwaring, 


50  LUCRETIA. 

and  Mr.  Vernon.  This  last  had  ensconced  himself  apart 
from  all,  in  the  angle  formed  by  one  of  the  pilasters  of  the  arch 
that  divided  the  room,  so  that  he  was  in  command,  as  it  were, 
of  both  sections.  Reclined,  with  the  careless  grace  that 
seemed  inseparable  from  every  attitude  and  motion  of  his  per- 
son, in  one  of  the  great  velvet  chairs,  with  a  book  in  his  hand, 
which,  to  say  truth,  was  turned  upside  down,  but  in  the  lec- 
ture of  which  he  seemed  absorbed — he  heard  at  one  hand  the 
mirthful  laughter  that  circled  round  young  Ardworth,  or,  in  its 
pauses,  caught  on  the  other  side,  muttered  exclamations  from  the 
grave  whist  players:  "If  you  had  but  trumped  that  diamond, 
ma'am!"  "Bless  me.  sir,  it  was  the  best  heart!"  And  some- 
how or  other,  both  the  laughter  and  the  exclamations  affected 
him  alike,  with  what  then  was  called  "the  spleen" — for  the 
one  reminded  him  of  his  own  young  days  of  joyless,  careless 
mirth,  of  which  his  mechanical  gayety  now  was  but  a  mocking 
ghost,  and  the  other  seemed  a  satire,  a  parody,  on  the  fierce 
but  noiseless  rapture  of  gaming,  through  which  his  passions 
had  passed — when  thousands  had  slipped  away  with  a  bland 
smile,  provoking  not  one  of  those  natural  ebullitions  of  emotion 
which  there  accompanied  the  loss  of  a  shilling  point.  And  be- 
sides this,  Vernon  had  been  so  accustomed  to  the  success  of 
the  drawing-room,  to  be  a  somebody  and  a  something  in  the 
company  of  wits  and  princes,  that  he  felt,  for  the  first  time,  a 
sense  of  insignificance  in  this  provincial  circle.  Those  fat 
squires  had  heard  nothing  of  Mr.  Vernon,  except  that  he  would 
not  have  Laughton — he  had  no  acres,  no  vote  in  their  county — 
he  was  a  nobody  to  them.  Those  ruddy  maidens,  though  now 
and  then,  indeed,  one  or  two  might  steal  an  admiring  glance 
at  a  figure  of  elegance  so  unusual,  regarded  him  not  with  the 
female  interest  he  had  been  accustomed  to  inspire.  They  felt 
instinctively  that  he  could  be  nothing  to  them,  or  they  to 
him — a  mere  London  fop,  and  not  half  so  handsome  as  Squires 
Bluff  and  Chuff. 

Rousing  himself  from  this  little  vexation  to  his  vanity,  with  a 
conscious  smile  at  his  own  weakness,  Vernon  turned  his  looks 
towards  the  door,  waiting  for  Lucretia's  entrance;  and  since 
her  uncle's  address  to  him,  feeling  that  new  and  indescribable 
interest  in  her  appearance  which  is  apt  to  steal  into  every  breast, 
when  what  was  before  but  an  indifferent  acquaintance  is  sud- 
denly haloed  with  the  light  of  a  possible  wife.  At  length  the 
door  opened  and  Lucretia  entered.  Mr.  Vernon  lowered  his 
book,  and  gazed  with  an  earnestness  that  partook  both  of 
doubt  and  admiration, 


LUCRETIA.  51 

Lucretia  Clavering  was  tall — tall  beyond  what  is  admitted  to 
be  tall  in  woman;  but  in  her  height  there  was  nothing  either 
awkward  or  masculine — a  figure  more  perfect  never  served  for 
model  to  a  sculptor.  The  dress  at  that  day,  unbecoming  as 
we  now  deem  it,  was  not  to  her — at  least,  on  the  whole — dis- 
advantageous. The  short  waist  gave  greater  sweep  to  her  ma- 
jestic length  of  limb,  while  the  classic  thinness  of  the  drapery 
betrayed  the  exact  proportion  and  the  exquisite  contour.  The 
arms  then  were  worn  bare  almost  to  the  shoulder,  and  Lucre- 
tia's  arms  were  not  more  faultless  in  shape  than  dazzling  in 
their  snowy  color — the  stately  neck,  the  falling  shoulders,  the 
firm,  slight,  yet  rounded  bust — all  would  have  charmed  equally 
the  artist  and  the  sensualist.  Fortunately  the  sole  defect  of 
her  form  was  not  apparent  at  a  distance:  that  defect  was  in  the 
hand ;  it  had  not  the  usual  faults  of  female  youthfulness — the 
superfluity  of  flesh,  the  too  rosy  healthfulness  of  color;  on  the 
contrary,  it  was  small  and  thin,  but  it  was,  nevertheless,  more 
the  hand  of  a  man  than  a  woman ;  the  shape  had  a  man's  ner- 
vous distinctness,  the  veins  swelled  like  sinews,  the  joints  of 
the  fingers  were  marked  and  prominent.  In  that  hand,  it  almost 
seemed  as  if  the  iron  force  of  the  character  betrayed  itself. 
But  as  we  have  said,  this  slight  defect,  which  few,  if  seen,  would 
hypercritically  notice,  could  not  of  course  be  perceptible  as 
she  moved  slowly  up  the  room;  and  Vernon's  eye,  glancing 
over  the  noble  figure,  rested  upon  the  face.  Was  it  handsome? 
Was  it  repelling?  Strange  that  in  feature  it  had  pretensions  to 
the  highest  order  of  beauty,  and  yet,  even  that  experienced 
connoisseur  in  female  charms  was  almost  puzzled  what  sen- 
tence to  pronounce.  The  hair,  as  was  the  fashion  of  the  day, 
clustered  in  profuse  curls  over  the  forehead,  but  could  not  con- 
ceal a  slight  line  or  wrinkle  between  the  brows;  and  this  line,  rare 
in  women  at  any  age,  rare  even  in  men  at  hers,  gave  an  expres- 
sion at  once  of  thought  and  sternness  to  the  whole  face.  The 
eyebrows  themselves  were  straight,  and  not  strongly  marked, — 
a  shade  or  two  perhaps  too  light,  a  fault  still  more  apparent  in 
the  lashes;  the  eyes  were  large,  full,  and,  though  bright,  aston- 
ishingly calm  and  deep,  at  least  in  ordinary  moments;  yet 
withal  they  wanted  the  charm  of  that  steadfast  and  open  look 
which  goes  at  once  to  the  heart  and  invites  its  trust;  their  ex- 
pression was  rather  vague  and  abstracted.  She  usually  looked 
aslant  while  she  spoke,  and  this,  which  with  some  appears  but 
shyness,  in  one  so  self-collected  had  an  air  of  falsehood.  But 
when,  at  times,  if  earnest,  and  bent  rather  on  examining  those 
she  addressed  than  guarding  herself  from  penetration,  she  fixed 


g2  LUCRETIA. 

those  eyes  upon  you  with  sudden  and  direct  scrutiny,  the  gaze 
impressed  you  powerfully,  and  haunted  you  with  a  strange 
spell.  The  eye  itself  was  of  a  peculiar  and  displeasing  color — 
not  blUe,  nor  gray,  nor  black,  nor  hazel,  but  rather  of  that  cat- 
like green,  which  is  drowsy  in  the  light,  and  vivid  in  the  shade. 
The  profile  was  purely  Greek,  and  so  seen,  Lucretia's  beauty 
seemed  incontestable ;  but  in  front  face,  and  still  more  when 
inclined  between  the  two,  all  the  features  took  a  sharpness 
that,  however  regular,  had  something  chilling  and  severe;  the 
mouth  was  small,  but  the  lips  were  thin  and  pale,  and  had  an 
expression  of  effort  and  contraction  which  added  to  the  dis- 
trust that  her  sidelong  glance  was  calculated  to  inspire.  The 
teeth  were  dazzlingly  white,  but  sharp  and  thin,  and  the  eye- 
teeth  were  much  longer  than  the  rest.  The  complexion  was 
pale,  but  without  much  delicacy ;  the  paleness  seemed  not  nat- 
ural to  it,  but  rather  that  hue  which  study  and  late  vigils  give 
to  men ;  so  that  she  wanted  the  freshness  and  bloom  of  youth, 
and  looked  older  than  she  was — an  effect  confirmed  by  an  ab- 
sence of  roundness  in  the  cheek,  not  noticeable  in  the  profile, 
but  rendering  the  front  face  somewhat  harsh  as  well  as  sharp. 
In  a  word,  the  face  and  the  figure  were  not  in  harmony ;  the 
figure  prevented  you  from  pronouncing  her  to  be  masculine — • 
the  face  took  from  the  figure  the  charm  of  feminacy.  It  was 
the  head  of  the  young  Augustus  upon  the  form  of  Agrippina. 
One  touch  more,  and  we  close  a  description  which  already  per- 
haps the  reader  may  consider  frivolously  minute.  If  you  had 
placed  before  the  mouth  and  lower  part  of  the  face  a  mask  or 
bandage,  the  whole  character  of  the  upper  face  would  have 
changed  at  once ;  the  eye  lost  its  glittering  falseness,  the  brow 
its  sinister  contraction;  you  would  have  pronounced  the  face 
not  only  beautiful,  but  sweet  and  womanly.  Take  that  ban- 
dage suddenly  away,  and  the  change  would  have  startled  you, 
and  startled  you  the  more,  because  you  could  detect  no  suffi- 
cient defect  or  disproportion  in  the  lower  part  of  the  counte- 
nance to  explain  it.  It  was  as  if  the  mouth  was  the  key  to  the 
whole:  the  key  nothing  without  the  text,  the  text  uncompre- 
hended  without  the  key.  Such,  then,  was  Lucretia  Clavering 
in  outward  appearance,  at  the  age  of  twenty — striking  to  the 
most  careless  eye,  interesting  and  perplexing  the  student  in 
that  dark  language,  never  yet  deciphered, — the  human  counte- 
nance. The  reader  must  have  observed  that  the  effect  every 
face  that  he  remarks  for  the  first  time  produces,  is  different 
from  the  impression  it  leaves  upon  him  when  habitually  seen. 
Perhaps,  no  two  persons  differ  more  from  each  other,  than 


LUCRETIA.  53 

does  the  same  countenance  in  our  earliest  recollection  of  it 
from  the  countenance  regarded  in  the  familiarity  of  repeated 
intercourse.  And  this  was  especially  the  case  with  Lucretia 
Clavering's;  the  first  impulse  of  nearly  all  who  beheld  it  was 
distrust  that  partook  of  fear;  it  almost  inspired  you  with  a 
sense  of  danger.  The  judgment  rose  up  against  it;  the  heart 
set  itself  on  its  guard.  But  this  uneasy  sentiment  soon  died 
away  with  most  observers,  in  admiration  at  the  chiselled  out- 
line, which,  like  the  Grecian  sculpture,  gained  the  more  the 
more  it  was  examined ;  in  respect  for  the  intellectual  power  of 
the  expression ;  and  in  fascinated  pleasure  at  the  charm  of  a 
smile,  rarely  employed,  it  is  true,  but  the  more  attractive,  both 
for  that  reason  and  for  its  sudden  effect  in  giving  brightness 
and  persuasion  to  an  aspect  that  needed  them  so  much.  It  was 
literally  like  the  abrupt  breaking  out  of  a  sunbeam ;  and  the 
repellent  impression  of  the  face  thus  familiarized  away,  the 
matchless  form  took  its  natural  influence ;  so  that,  while  one 
who  but  saw  Lucretia  for  a  moment  might  have  pronounced 
her  almost  plain,  and  certainly  not  prepossessing  in  appear- 
ance, those  with  whom  she  lived,  those  whom  she  sought  to 
please,  those  who  saw  her  daily,  united  in  acknowledgment  of 
her  beauty;  and  if  they  still  felt  awe,  attributed  it  only  to 
the  force  of  her  understanding. 

As  she  now  came  midway  up  the  room,  Gabriel  started  from 
his  seat,  and  ran  to  her  caressingly.  Lucretia  bent  down,  and 
placed  her  hand  upon  his  fair  locks.  As  she  did  so,  he 
whispered: 

"Mr.  Vernon  has  been  watching  for  you." 

"Hush!     Where  is  your  father?" 

"Behind  the  screen,  at  chess  with  Sir  Miles." 

"With  Sir  Miles!"  and  Lucretia's  eyes  fell  with  the  direct 
gaze  we  have  before  referred  to  upon  the  boy's  face. 

"I  have  been  looking  over  them  pretty  often,"  said  he 
meaningly:  "they  have  talked  of  nothing  but  the  game." 

Lucretia  lifted  her  head,  and  glanced  round  with  her  furtive 
eye;  the  boy  divined  the  search,  and  with  a  scarce  perceptible 
gesture  pointed  her  attention  to  Mainwaring's  retreat.  Her 
vivid  smile  passed  over  her  lips,  as  she  bowed  slightly  to  her 
lover,  and  then  withdrawing  the  hand  which  Gabriel  had  taken 
in  his  own,  she  moved  on,  passed  Vernon  with  a  commonplace 
word  or  two,  and  was  soon  exchanging  greetings  with  the  gay 
merry-makers  in  the  further  part  of  the  room.  A  few  minutes 
afterwards  the  servants  entered,  the  tea-table  was  removed, 
chairs  thrust  back,  a  single  lady  of  a  certain  age  volunteered 


54  LUCRET1A. 

her  services  at  the  piano,  and  dancing  began  within  the  ample 
space  which  the  arch  fenced  off  from  the  whist-players.  Ver- 
non  had  watched  his  opportunity,  and  at  the  first  sound  of  the 
piano  had  gained  Lucretia's  side,  and  with  grave  politeness 
pre-engaged  her  hand  for  the  opening  dance. 

At  that  day,  though  it  is  not  so  very  long  ago,  gentlemen 
were  not  ashamed  to  dance,  and  to  dance  well ;  it  was  no  lan- 
guid saunter  through  a  quadrille;  it  was  fair,  deliberate,  skil- 
ful dancing,  amongst  the  courtly;  free,  bounding  movement 
amongst  the  gay. 

Vernon,  as  might  be  expected,  was  the  most  admired  per- 
former of  the  evening ;  but  he  was  thinking  very  little  of  the 
notice  he  at  last  excited ;  he  was  employing  such  ingenuity  as 
his  experience  of  life  supplied  to  the-  deficiencies  of  a  very  im- 
perfect education,  limited  to  the  little  flogged  into  him  at  Eton, 
in  deciphering  the  character  and  getting  at  the  heart  of  his  fair 
partner. 

"I  wonder  you  do  not  make  Sir  Miles  take  you  to  London, 
my  cousin,  if  you  will  allow  me  to  call  you  so.  You  ought  to 
have  been  presented." 

"I  have  no  wish  to  go  to  London  yet." 

"Yet!"  said  Mr.  Vernon,  with  the  somewhat  fade  gallantry 
of  his  day;  "beauty  even  like  yours  has  little  time  to  spare." 

"Hands  across,  hands  across !"  cried  Mr.  Ard worth. 

"And,"  continued  Mr.  Vernon,  as  soon  as  a  pause  was  per- 
mitted to  him,  "there  is  a  song  which  the  Prince  sings,  written 
by  some  sensible  old-fashioned  fellow,  which  says: 

' '  Gather  your  rosebuds  while  you  may, 
For  Time  is  still  a-flying.'" 

"You  have  obeyed  the  moral  of  the  song  yourself,  I  believe, 
Mr.  Vernon." 

"Call  me  cousin,  or  Charles — Charley,  if  you  like — as  most 
of  my  friends  do:  nobody  ever  calls  me  Mr.  Vernon;  I  don't 
know  myself  by  that  name." 

"Down  the  middle,  we  are  all  waiting  for  you,"  shouted 
Ardworth. 

And  down  the  middle  with  wondrous  grace  glided  the  ex- 
quisite nankins  of  Charley  Vernon. 

The  dance  now,  thanks  to  Ardworth,  became  too  animated 
and  riotous  to  allow  more  than  a  few  broken  monosyllables  till 
Vernon  and  his  partner  gained  the  end  of  the  set,  and  then, 
flirting  his  partner's  fan,  he  recommenced: 

"Seriously,  my  cousin,  you  must  sometimes  feel  very  much 
moped  here." 


LUCRETIA.  55 

"Never!"  answered  Lucretia.  Not  once  had  her  eye  rested 
on  Mr.  Vernon.  She  felt  that  she  was  sounded. 

"Yet  I  am  sure  you  have  a  taste  fc~  the  pomps  and  vanities. 
Aha!  there. is  ambition  under  those  careless  curls,"  said  Mr. 
Vernon,  with  his  easy  adorable  impertinence. 

Lucretia  winced. 

"But  if  I  were  ambitious,  what  field  for  ambition  could  I 
find  in  London?" 

"The  same  as  Alexander — empire,  my  cousin." 

"You  forget  that  I  am  not  a  man.  Man  indeed,  may  hope 
for  an  empire.  It  is  something  to  be  a  Pitt,  or  even  a  Warren 
Hastings." 

Mr.  Vernon  stared.     Was  this  stupidity,  or  what? 

"A  woman  has  an  empire  more  undisputed  than  Mr.  Pitt's, 
and  more  pitiless  than  that  of  Governor  Hastings." 

"Oh.  pardon  me,  Mr.  Vernon — " 

"Charles,  if  you  please." 

Lucretia' s  brow  darkened. 

' '  Pardon  me, ' '  she  repeated ;  '  'but  these  compliments,  if  such 
they  are  meant  to  be,  meet  a  very  ungrateful  return.  A  wom- 
an's empire  over  gauzes  and  ribbons,  over  tea-tables  and 
drums,  over  fops  and  coquettes,  is  not  worth  a  journey  from 
Laughton  to  London." 

'You  think  you  can  despise  admiration?" 

"What  you  mean  by  admiration — yes." 

"And  love,  too?"  said  Vernon,  in  a  whisper. 

Now  Lucretia  at  once  and  abruptly  raised  her  eyes  to  her 
partner.  Was  he  aiming  at  her  secret?  Was  he  hinting  at  in- 
tentions of  his  own?  The  look  chilled  Vernon,  and  he  turned 
away  his  head. 

Suddenly,  than,  in  pursuance  of  a  new  train  of  ideas,  Lucre- 
tia altered  her  manner  to  him.  She  had  detected  what  before 
she  had  surmised.  This  sudden  familiarity  on  his  part  arose 
from  notions  her  uncle  had  instilled — the  visitor  had  been 
incited  to  become  the  suitor.  Her  penetration  into  character, 
which  from  childhood  had  been  her  passionate  study,  told  her 
that  on  that  light,  polished,  fearless  nature,  scorn  would  have 
slight  effect — to  meet  the  familiarity  would  be  the  best  means  to 
secure  a  friend,  to  disarm  a  wooer.  She  changed  then  her  man- 
ner ;  she  summoned  up  her  extraordinary  craft:  she  accepted  the 
intimacy  held  out  to  her,  not  to  unguard  herself,  but  to  lay 
open  her  opponent.  It  became  necessary  to  her  to  know  this 
man,  to  have  such  power  as  the  knowledge  might  give  her. 
Insensibly  and  gradually  she  led  her  companion  away  from  his 


50  LUCRETtA. 

design  of  approaching  her  own  secrets  or  character,  into  frank 
talk  about  himself.  All  unconsciously  he  began  to  lay  bare  to 
his  listener  the  infirmities  of  his  erring,  open  heart.  Silently 
she  looked  down,  and  plumbed  them  all:  the  frivolity,  the 
recklessness,  the  half-gay,  half-mournful  sense  of  waste  and 
ruin.  There,  blooming  amongst  the  wrecks,  she  saw  the  fair- 
est flowers  of  noble  manhood,  profuse  and  fragrant  still — gen- 
erosity and  courage,  and  disregard  for  self.  Spendthrift  and 
gambler,  on  one  side  the  medal ;  gentleman  and  soldier,  on  the 
other.  Beside  this  maimed  and  imperfect  nature  she  measured 
her  own  prepared  and  profound  intellect,  and  as  she  listened, 
her  smile  became  more  bland  and  frequent.  She  could  afford 
to  be  gracious ;  she  felt  superiority,  scorn,  and  safety. 

As  this  seeming  intimacy  had  matured,  Vernon  and  his  part- 
ner had  quitted  the  dance,  and  were  conversing  apart  in  the 
recess  of  one  of  the  windows,  which  the  newspaper  readers  had 
deserted,  in  the  part  of  the  room  where  Sir  Miles  and  Dali- 
bard,  still  seated,  were  about  to  commence  their  third  game  at 
chess.  The  Baronet's  hand  ceased  from  the  task  of  arranging 
his  pawns,  his  eye  was  upon  the  pair,  and  then,  after  a  long 
and  complacent  gaze,  it  looked  round  without  discovering  the 
object  it  sought. 

"I  am  about  to  task  your  kindness  most  improperly,  Mon- 
sieur Dalibard,"  said  Sir  Miles,  with  that  politeness  so  dis- 
pleasing to  Ardworth,  "but  will  you  do  me  the  favor  to  move 
aside  that  fold  of  the  screen.  I  wish  for  a  better  view  of  our 
young  people.  Thank  you  very  much." 

Sir  Miles  now  discovered  Mainwaring,  and  observed  that  far 
from  regarding  with  self-betraying  jealousy  the  apparent  flirta- 
tion going  on  between  Lucretia  and  her  kinsman,  he  was  en- 
gaged in  animated  conversation  with  the  chairman  of  the  quar- 
ter sessions.  Sir  Miles  was  satisfied,  and  ranged  his  pawns. 
All  this  time,  and  indeed  ever  since  they  had  sat  down  to  play, 
the  Provencal  had  been  waiting  with  the  patience  that  belonged 
to  his  character,  for  some  observation  from  Sir  Miles  on  the 
subject  which  his  sagacity  perceived  was  engrossing  his 
thoughts.  There  had  been  about  the  old  gentleman  a  fidgety 
restlessness  which  showed  that  something  was  on  his  mind. 
His  eyes  had  been  frequently  turned  towards  his  niece  since 
her  entrance;  once  or  twice  he  had  cleared  his  throat  and 
hemmed, — his  usual  prelude  to  some  more  important  com- 
munication— and  Dalibard  had  heard  him  muttering  to  him- 
self, and  fancied  he  caught  the  name  of  "Mainwaring."  And 
indeed  the  Baronet  had  been  repeatedly  on  the  verge  of  sound- 


LUCRETIA.  57 

ing  his  secretary,  and  as  often  had  been  checked  both  by  pride 
in  himself  and  pride  for  Lucretia.  It  seemed  to  him  beneath 
his  own  dignity  and  hers  even  to  hint  to  an  inferior  a  fear, 
a  doubt,  of  the  heiress  of  Laughton.  Olivier  Dalibard  could 
easily  have  led  on  his  patron;  he  could  easily,  if  he  pleased  it, 
have  dropped  words  to  instill  suspicion  and  prompt  question, 
but  that  was  not  his  object;  he  rather  shunned  than  courted 
any  reference  to  himself  upon  the  matter ;  for  he  knew  that 
Lucretia,  if  she  could  suppose  that  he,  however  indirectly,  had 
betrayed  her  to  her  uncle,  would  at  once  declare  his  own  suit 
to  her,  and  so  procure  his  immediate  dismissal ;  while  aware 
of  her  powers  of  dissimulation,  and  her  influence  over  her 
uncle,  he  feared  that  a  single  word  from  her  would  suffice  to 
remove  all  suspicion  in  Sir  Miles,  however  ingeniously  im- 
planted, and  however  truthfully  grounded.  But  all  the  while, 
under  his  apparent  calm,  his  mind  was  busy,  and  his  passions 
burning. 

"Pshaw,  your  old  play — the  bishop  again!"  said  Sir  Miles, 
laughing,  as  he  moved  a  knight  to  frustrate  his  adversary's  sup- 
posed plan;  and  then  turning  back,  he  once  more  contemplated 
the  growing  familiarity  between  Vernon  and  his  niece.  This 
time  he  could  not  contain  his  pleasure ;  ' '  Dalibard,  my  dear  sir, ' ' 
he  said,  rubbing  his  hands,  "look  yonder;  they  would  make  a 
handsome  couple!" 

"Who,  sir?"  said  the  Provenfal,  looking  another  way,  with 
dogged  stupidity. 

"Who?  Damn  it,  man!  Nay,  pray  forgive  my  ill  man- 
ners— but  I  felt  glad,  sir,  and  proud,  sir.  -Who?  Charley 
Vernon  and  Lucretia  Clavering. " 

"Assuredly,  yes.  Do  you  think  that  there  is  a  chance  of  so 
happy  an  event?" 

"Why,  it  depends  only  on  Lucretia;  I  shall  never  force 
her."  Here  Sir  Miles  stopped,  for  Gabriel,  unperceived  before, 
picked  up  his  patron's  pocket-handkerchief. 

Oilvier  Dalibard's  gray  eyes  rested  coldly  on  his  son.  "You 
are  not  dancing  to-night,  my  boy.  Go;  I  like  to  see  you 
amused." 

The  boy  obeyed  at  once,  as  he  always  did,  the  paternal 
commands.  He  found  a  partner,  and  joined  a  dance  just 
begun ;  and  in  the  midst  of  the  dance,  Honore  Gabriel  Varney 
seemed  a  new  being;  not  Ardworth  himself  so  thoroughly  en- 
tered into  the  enjoyment  of  the  exercise,  the  lights,  the  music. 
With  brilliant  eyes  and  dilated  nostrils,  he  seemed  prematurely 
to  feel  all  that  is  exciting  and  voluptuous  in  that  exhilaration, 


58  LUCRETIA. 

which  to  childhood  is  usually  so  innocent.  His  glances  fol- 
lowed the  fairest  form ;  his  clasp  lingered  in  the  softest  hand ; 
his  voice  trembled  as  the  warm  breath  of  his  partner  came  on 
his  cheeks. 

Meanwhile  the  conversation  between  the  chess-players  con- 
tinued. 

"Yes,"  said  the  Baronet,  "it  depends  only  on  Lucretia, — 
and  she  seems  pleased  with  Vernon;  who  would  not  be?" 

"Your  penetration  rarely  deceives  you,  sir.  I  own  I  think 
with  you.  Does  Mr.  Vernon  know  that  you  would  permit  the 
alliance?" 

"  Yes;  but — "  the  Baronet  stopped  short. 

"You  were  saying — but — but  what,  Sir  Miles?" 

"Why  the  dog  affected  diffidence;  he  has  some  fear  lest  he 
should  not  win  her  affections — but  luckily,  at  least,  they  are 
disengaged." 

Dalibard  looked  grave,  and  his  eye,  as  if  involuntarily, 
glanced  towards  Mainwaring.  As  ill  luck  would  have  it,  the 
young  man  had  then  ceased  his  conversation  with  the  chair- 
man of  the  quarter  sessions,  and  with  arms  folded,  brow  con- 
tracted, and  looks  earnest,  anxious,  and  intent,  was  contemplat- 
ing the  whispered  conference  between  Lucretia  and  Vernon. 

Sir  Miles's  eye  had  followed  his  secretary's,  and  his  face 
changed.  His  hand  fell  on  the  chess-board,  and  upset  half 
the  men;  he  uttered  a  very  audible  "Zounds!" 

"I  think,  Sir  Miles,"  said  the  Provencal,  rising  as  if  con- 
scious that  Sir  Miles  wished  to  play  no  more;  "I  think  that 
if  you  spoke  soon  to  Miss  Clavering,  as  to  your  views  with 
regard  to  Mr.  Vernon,  it  might  ripen  matters;  for  I  have  heard 
it  said  by  French  mothers — and  our  French  women  understand 
the  female  heart,  sir — that  a  girl  having  no  other  affection  is 
often  prepossessed  at  once  in  favor  of  a  man  whom  she  knows 
beforehand  is  prepared  to  woo  and  to  win  her,  whereas  without 
that  knowledge  he  would  have  seemed  but  an  ordinary 
acquaintance." 

"It  is  shrewdly  said,  my  dear  Monsieur  Dalibard;  and  for 
more  reasons  than  one,  the  sooner  I  speak  to  her  the  better. 
Lend  me  your  arm — it  is  time  for  supper — I  see  the  dance  is 
over." 

Passing  by  the  place  where  Mainwaring  still  leant,  the  Baro- 
net looked  at  him  fixedly.  The  young  man  did  not  notice  the 
gaze.  Sir  Miles  touched  him  gently.  He  started  as  from  a 
revery. 

"You  have  not  danced,  Mr.  Mainwaring." 


LUCRETIA.  59 

"I  dance  so  seldom,  Sir  Miles,"  said  Mainwaring,  coloring. 

"Ah!  you  employ  your  head  more  than,  your  heels,  young 
gentleman  ;  very  right — I  must  speak  to  you  to-morrow.  Well, 
ladies,  I  hope  you  have  enjoyed  yourselves.  My  dear  Mrs. 
Vesey,  you  and  I  are  old  friends,  you  know, — many  a  minuet 
we  have  danced  together,  eh?  We  can't  dance  now — but  we 
can  walk  arm  in  arm  together  still.  Honor  me.  And  your 
little  grandson — vaccinated,  eh!  Wonderful  invention!  To 
supper,  ladies — to  supper!" 

The  company  were  gone.  The  lights  were  out — all  save  the 
lights  of  heaven,  and  they  came  bright  and  still  through  the 
casements:  Moonbeam  and  Starbeam,  they  seemed  now  to 
have  the  old  house  to  themselves.  In  came  the  rays,  brighter 
and  longer  and  bolder — like  fairies  that  march,  rank  upon 
rank,  into  their  kingdom  of  solitude.  Down  the  oak  stairs, 
from  the  casements,  blazoned  with  heraldry,  moved  the  rays, 
creepingly,  fearfully.  On  the  armor  in  the  hall  clustered  the 
rays,  boldly  and  brightly,  till  the  steel  shone  out  like  a  mirror. 
In  the  library,  long  and  low,  they  just  entered,  stopped  short — 
it  was  no  place  for  their  play.  In  the  drawing-room,  now  de- 
serted, they  were  more  curious  and  adventurous.  Through 
the  large  window,  still  open,  they  came  in  freely  and  archly, 
as  if  to  spy  what  had  caused  such  disorder;  the  stiff  chairs  out 
of  place,  the  smooth  floor  despoiled  of  its  carpet,  that  flower 
dropped  on  the  ground,  that  scarf  forgotten  on  the  table — the 
rays  lingered  upon  them  all.  Up  and  down,  through  the 
house,  from  the  base  to  the  roof,  roved  the  children  of  the  air, 
and  found  but  two  spirits  awake  amidst  the  slumber  of  the  rest. 

In  that  tower  to  the  east — in  the  tapestry  chamber,  "with  the 
large  gilded  bed  in  the  recess,  came  the  rays,  tamed  and  wan, 
as  if  scared  by  the  grosser  light  on  the  table.  By  that  table  sat 
a  girl,  her  brow  leaning  on  one  hand ;  in  the  other  she  held  a 
rose — it  is  a  love-token,  exchanged  with  its  sister  rose,  by 
stealth,  in  mute  sign  of  reproach  for  doubt  excited — an  assur- 
ance and  a  reconciliation.  A  love-token!  Shrink  not,  ye 
rays — there  is  something  akin  to  you  in  'love.  But,  see,  the 
hand  closes  convulsively  on  the  flower — it  hides  it  not  in  the 
breast — it  lifts  it  not  to  the  lip ;  it  throws  it  passionately  aside. 
"How  long!"  muttered  the  girl  impetuously;  "How  long! 
and  to  think  that  will  here  cannot  shorten  an  hour!"  Then 
she  rose,  and  walked  to  and  fro,  and  each  time  she  gained  a 
certain  niche  in  the  chamber  she  paused,  and  then  irresolutely 
passed  on  again.  What  is  in  that  niche?  Only  books.  What 
can  books  teach  thee,  pale  girl?  The  step  treads  firmer;  this 


60  LUCRETIA. 

time  it  halts  more  resolved.  The  hand  that  clasped  the  flower 
takes  down  a  volume.  The  girl  sits  again  before  the  light. 
See,  O  rays,  what  is  the  volume?  Moon  and  Starbeam,  ye 
love  what  lovers  read  by  the  lamp  in  the  loneliness.  No  love- 
ditty  this;  no  yet  holier  lesson  to  patience  and  moral  to  hope. 
What  hast  thou,  young  girl,  strong  in  health  and  rich  in  years, 
with  the  lore  of  the  leech, — with  prognostics,  and  symptoms, 
and  diseases?  She  is  tracing  with  hard  eyes  the  signs  that 
precede  the  grim  enemy  in  his  most  sudden  approach— the 
habits  that  invite  him,  the  warnings  that  he  gives.  He  whose 
wealth  shall  make  her  free  has  twice  had  the  visiting  shock — 
he  starves  not — he  lives  free!  She  closes  the  volume,  and, 
musing,  metes  him  out  the  hours  and  days  he  has  to  live. 
Shrink  back,  ye  rays!  The  love  is  disenhallowed:  while  the 
hand  was  on  the  rose  the  thought  was  on  the  charnel. 

Yonder,  in  the  opposite  tower,  in  the  small  casement  near 
the  roof,  came  the  rays ;  Childhood  is  asleep.  Moon  and 
Starbeam,  ye  love  the  slumbers  of  the  child!  The  door 
opens — a  dark  figure  steals  noiselessly  in.  The  father  comes  to 
look  on  the  sleep  of  his  son.  Holy  tenderness,  if  this  be  all! 

"Gabriel,  wake!"  said  a  low,  stern  voice,  and  a  rough  hand 
shook  the  sleeper. 

The  sharpest  test  of  those  nerves  upon  which  depends  the 
mere  animal  courage  is  to  be  roused  suddenly  in  the  depth  of 
night  by  a  violent  hand.  The  impulse  of  Gabriel,  thus 
startled,  was  neither  of  timidity  nor  surprise.  It  was  that  of 
some  Spartan  boy,  not  new  to  danger:  with  a  slight  cry,  and  a 
fierce  spring,  the  son's  hand  clutched  at  the  father's  throat. 
Dalibard  shook  him  off  with  an  effort,  and  a  smile  half  in  ap- 
proval, half  in  irony,  played  by  the  moonlight  over  his  lips. 

"Blood  will  out,  young  tiger,"  said  he.  "Hush,  and  hear 
me!" 

"Is  it  you,  father?"  said  Gabriel;   "I  thought,  I  dreamed — " 

"No  matter;  think — dream  always,  that  man  should  be 
prepared  for  defence  from  peril!" 

"Gabriel  (and  the  pale  scholar  seated  himself  on  the  bed), 
turn  your  face  to  mine — nearer;  let  the  moon  fall  on  it;  lift 
your  eyes — look  at  me — so!  Are  you  not  playing  false  to  me? 
Are  you  not  Lucretia's  spy,  while  you  are  pretending  to  be 
mine?  It  is  so;  your  eye  betrays  you.  Now,  heed  me;  you 
have  a  mind  beyond  your  years.  Do  you  love  best  the  miser- 
able garret  in  London,  the  hard  fare  and  squalid  dress,  or  your 
lodgment  here,  the  sense  of  luxury,  the  sight  of  splendor,  the 
atmosphere  of  wealth?  You  have  the  choice  before  you," 


LUCRETIA.  6l 

"I  choose  as  you  would  have  me,  then,"  said  the  boy — 
"the  last." 

"I  believe  you.  Attend!  You  do  not  love  me — that  is 
natural — you  are  the  son  of  Clara  Varney !  You  have  sup- 
posed that  in  loving  Lucretia  Clavering  you  might  vex  or  thwart 
me,  you  scarce  knew  how ;  and  Lucretia  Clavering  has  gold 
and  gifts,  and  soft  words,  and  promises,  to  bribe  withal.  I  now 
tell  you  openly  my  plan  with  regard  to  this  girl:  it  is  my  aim 
to  marry  her — to  be  master  of  this  house  and  these  lands.  If 
I  succeed,  you  share  them  with  me.  By  betraying  me,  word 
or  look,  to  Lucretia,  you  frustrate  this  aim ;  you  plot  against 
our  rise  and  to  our  ruin.  Deem  not  that  you  could  escape 
my  fall ;  if  I  am  driven  hence — as  you  might  drive  me — you 
share  my  fate ;  and,  mark  me,  you  are  delivered  up  to  my 
revenge!  You  cease  to  be  my  son — you  are  my  foe.  Child! 
you  know  me." 

The  boy,  bold  as  he  was,  shuddered ;  but  after  a  pause, 
so  brief  that  a  breath  scarce  passed  between  his  silence  and 
his  words,  he  replied,  with  emphasis: 

"Father,  you  have  read  my  heart.  I  have  been  persuaded 
by  Lucretia  (for  she  bewitches  me),  to  watch  you — at  least, 
when  you  are  with  Sir  Miles.  I  knew  that  this  was  mixed  up 
with  Mr.  Mainwaring.  Now  that  you  have  made  me  understand 
your  own  views,  I  will  be  true,  to  you — true  without  threats." 

The  father  looked  hard  on  him,  and  seemed  satisfied  with 
the  gaze.  "Remember,  at  least,  that  your  future  rests  upon 
your  truth :  that  is  no  threat — that  is  a  thought  of  hope.  Now 
sleep  or  muse  on  it."  He  dropped  the  curtain  which  his  hand 
had  drawn  aside,  and  stole,  from  the  room  as  noiselessly  as  he 
had  entered.  The  boy  slept  no  more.  Deceit,  and  cupidity, 
and  corrupt  ambition,  were  at  work  in  his  brain.  Shrink  back, 
Moon  and  Starbeam!  On  that  child's  brow  play  the  demons 
who  had  followed  the  father's  step  to  his  bed  of  sleep. 

Back  to  his  own  room,  close  at  hand,  crept  Olivier  Dalibard. 
The  walls  were  lined  with  books — many  in  language  and  deep 
in  lore.  Moon  and  Starbeam,  ye  love  the  midnight  solitude  of 
the  scholar !  The  Provencal  stole  to  the  casement,  and  looked 
forth.  All  was  serene ;  breathless  trees,  and  gleaming  sculp- 
ture, and  whitened  sward,  girdled  by  the  mass  of  shadow.  Of 
what  thought  the  man?  not  of  the  present  loveliness  which  the 
scene  gave  to  his  eye,  nor  of  the  future  mysteries  which  the 
stars  should  whisper  to  the  soul.  Gloomily  over  a  stormy  and 
a  hideous  past  roved  the  memory,  stored  with  fraud  and  foul 
with  crime;  plan  upon  plan,  schemed  with  ruthless  wisdom, 


02  LUCRETIA. 

followed  up  by  remorseless  daring,  and  yet  all  now  a  ruin  and 
a  blank! — an  intellect  at  war  with  good,  and  the  good  had  con- 
quered! But  the  conviction  neither  touched  the  conscience,  nor 
enlightened  the  reason ;  he  felt,  it  is  true,  a  moody  sense  of 
impotence,  but  it  brought  rage,  not  despondency :  it  was  not 
that  he  submitted  to  Good,  as  too  powerful  to  oppose,  but  that 
he  deemed  he  had  not  yet  gained  all  the  mastery  over  the  arsenal 
of  Evil.  And  evil  he  called  it  not.  Good  and  evil  to  him  were 
but  subordinate  genii,  at  the  command  of  Mind ;  they  were  the 
slaves  of  the  lamp.  But  had  he  got  at  the  true  secret  of  the 
lamp  itself?  "How  is  it,"  he  thought,  as  he  turned  impatiently 
from  the  casement,  "that  I  am  baffled  here,  where  my  fortunes 
seemed  most  assured?  Here  the  mind  has  been  of  my  own 
training,  and  prepared  by  nature  to  my  hand ;  here  all  oppor- 
tunity has  smiled.  And  suddenly  the  merest  commonplace,  in 
the  vulgar  lives  of  mortals — an  unlooked-for  rival, — rival,  too, 
of  the  mould  I  had  taught  her  to  despise :  one  of  the  stock  gal- 
lants of  a  comedy :  no  character,  but  youth  and  fair  looks — yea, 
the  lover  of  the  stage  starts  up,  and  the  fabric  of  years  is  over- 
thrown." As  he  thus  mused,  he  placed  his  hand  upon  a  small 
box  on  one  of  the  tables.  "Yet,  within  this,"  resumed  his 
soliloquy,  and  he  struck  the  lid,  that  gave  back  a  dull  sound — 
"within  this  I  hold  the  keys  of  life  and  death !  Fool,  the  power 
does  not  reach  to  the  heart,  except  to  still  it.  Verily  and  in- 
deed were  the  old  heathens  mistaken?  Are  there  no  philtres  to 
change  the  current  of  desire?  But  touch  one  chord  in  a  girl's 
affection,  and  all  the  rest  is  mine — all — all — lands,  station, 
power — all  the  rest  are  in  the  opening  of  this  lid!" 

Hide  in'the  cloud,  O  Moon!  Shrink  back,  ye  Stars!  send 
not  your  holy,  pure,  ard  trouble-lulling  light  to  the  counte- 
nance blanched  and  livid  with  the  thoughts  of  murder. 

CHAPTER  III. 

CONFERENCES. 

THE  next  day  Sir  Miles  did  not  appear  at  breakfast ;  not 
that  he  was  unwell,  but  that  he  meditated  holding  certain  audi- 
ences, and  on  such  occasions  the  good  old  gentleman  liked  to 
prepare  himself.  He  belonged  to  a  school  in  which,  amidst 
much  that  was  hearty  and  convivial,  there  was  much  also  that, 
nowadays,  would  seem  stiff  and  formal,  contrasting  the  other 
school  immediately  succeeding  him,  which  Mr.  Vernon  repre- 
sented, and  of  which  the  Charles  Surface  of  Sheridan  is  a  faith* 


LUCRETIA.  63 

ful  and  admirable  type.  The  room  that  Sir  Miles  appropriated 
to  himself  was  properly  speaking,  the  state  apartment,  called  in 
the  old  inventories,  "King  James's  chamber";  it  was  on  the 
first  floor,  communicating  with  the  picture  gallery,  which  at 
the  farther  end  opened  upon  a  corridor,  admitting  to  the  princi- 
pal bedrooms.  As  Sir  Miles  cared  nothing  for  holiday  state, 
he  had  unscrupulously  taken  his  cubiculum  in  this  chamber, 
which  was  really  the  handsomest  in  the  house,  except  the  ban- 
quet hall ;  placed  his  bed  in  one  angle,  with  a  huge  screen  be- 
fore it,  filled  up  the  space  with  his  Italian  antiques  and  curiosi- 
ties, and  fixed  his  favorite  pictures  on  the  faded  gilt  leather 
panelled  on  the  walls.  His  main  motive  in  this  was  the  com- 
munication with  the  adjoining  gallery,  which,  when  the  weather 
was  unfavorable,  furnished  ample  room  for  his  habitual  walk. 
He  knew  how  many  strides  by  the  help  of  his  crutch  made  a 
mile,  and  this  was  convenient.  Moreover,  h'e  liked  to  look, 
when  alone,  on  those  old  portraits  of  his  ancestors,  which 
he  had  religiously  conserved  in  their  places,  preferring  to 
thrust  his  Florentine  and  Venetian  masterpieces  into  bed- 
rooms and  parlors  rather  than  to  dislodge  from  the  gallery 
the  stiff  ruffs,  doublets,  and  fardingales  of  his  predecessors. 
It  was  whispered  in  the  house,  that  the  Baronet,  whenever 
he  had  to  reprove  a  tenant,  or  lecture  a  dependent,  took 
care  to  have  him  brought  to  his  sanctum  through  the  full 
length  of  this  gallery,  so  that  the  victim  might  be  duly  prepared 
and  awed  by  the  imposing  effect  of  so  stately  a  journey,  and 
the  grave  faces  of  all  the  generations  of  St.  John,  which  could 
not  fail  to  impress  him  with  the  dignity  of  the  family,  and 
alarm  him  at  the  prospect  of  the  injured  frown  of  its  repre- 
sentative. Across  this  gallery  now,  following  the  steps  of  the 
powdered  valet,  strode  young  Ardworth ;  starting  now  and  then 
at  some  portrait  more  than  usually  grim,  more  often  wondering 
why  his  boots,  that  never  creaked  before,  should  creak  on  those 
particular  boards,  and  feeling  a  quiet  curiosity  without  the  least 
mixture  of  fear  or  awe,  as  to  what  old  Square-toes  intended  to 
say  to  him.  But  all  feeling  of  irreverence  ceased  when,  shown 
into  the  Baronet's  room,  and  the  door  closed,  Sir  Miles  rose 
with  a  smile  and  cordially  shaking  his  hand,  said,  dropping  the 
punctilious  courtesy  of  Mister:  "Ardworth,  sir,  if  I  had  a 
little  prejudice  against  you,  before  you  came,  you  have  con- 
quered it.  You  are  a  fine,  manly,  spirited  fellow,  sir ;  and  you 
have  an  old  man's  good  wishes,  which  are  no  bad  beginning  to 
a  young  man's  good  fortunes." 

The  color  rushed  over  Ardworth's  forehead,  and  a  tear  sprang 


64  LUCRETIA. 

to  his  eye.  He  felt  a  rising  at  his  throat,  as  he  stammered  out 
some  not  very  audible  reply. 

"I  wished  to  see  you,  young  gentleman,  that  I  might  judge 
myself  what  you  like  best,  and  what  would  best  fit  you.  Your 
father  is  in  the  army;  what  say  you  to  a  pair  of  colors?" 

"Oh,  Sir  Miles,  that  is  my  utmost  ambition!  Anything  but 
law,  except  the  Church ;  anything  but  the  Church,  except  a 
desk  and  a  counter!" 

The  Baranet,  much  pleased,  gave  him  a  gentle  pat  on  the 
shoulder.  "Ha,  ha!  we  gentlemen,  you  see,  (for  the  Ard- 
worths  are  very  well  born — very)  we  gentlemen  understand 
each  other !  Between  you  and  me,  I  never  liked  the  law ;  never 
thought  a  man  of  birth  should  belong  to  it — take  money  for 
lying — shabby — shocking !  Don't  let  that  go  any  further!  The 
Church — mother  Church — I  honor  her!  Church  and  State  go 
together !  But  one  ought  to  be  very  good  to  preach  to  others ; 
better  than  you  and  I  are,  eh,  eh?  ha,  ha!  Well,  then,  you 
like  the  army:  there's  a  letter  for  you  to  the  Horse  Guards; 
go  up  to  town ;  your  business  is  done ;  and,  as  for  your  outfit, 
read  this  little  book  at  your  leisure."  And  Sir  Miles  thrust  a 
pocket-book  into  Ardworth's  hand. 

"But  pardon  me,"  said  the  young  man,  much  bewildered. 
"What  claim  have  I,  Sir  Miles,  to  such  generosity?  I  know 
that  my  uncle  offended  you." 

"Sir,  that's  the  claim!"  said  Sir  Miles  gravely.  "I  cannot 
live  long!"  he  added,  with  a  touch  of  melancholy  in  his  voice; 
"let  me  die  in  peace  with  all !  perhaps  I  injured  your  uncle? 
Who  knows  but,  if  so,  he  hears  and  pardons  me  now?" 

"Oh,  Sir  Miles ! "  exclaimed  the  thoughtless,  generous-hearted 
young  man,  "and  my  little  playfellow,  Susan,  your  own  niece!" 

Sir  Miles  drew  back  haughtily  ;  but  the  burst  that  offended 
him  rose  so  evidently  from  the  heart,  was  so  excusable  from  its 
motive,  and  the  youth's  ignorance  of  the  world,  that  his  frown 
soon  vanished,  as  he  said,  calmly  and  gravely : 

"No  man,  my  good  sir,  can  allow  to  others  the  right  to  touch 
on  his  family  affairs;  I  trust  I  shall  be  just  to  the  poor  young 
lady ;  and  so,  if  we  never  meet  again,  let  us  think  well  of  each 
other.  Go,  my  boy!  Serve  your  king  and  your  country!" 

"I  will  do  my  best,  Sir  Miles,  if  only  to  merit  your  kind- 
ness." 

"Stay  a  moment:  you  are  intimate,  I  find,  with  young  Main- 
waring?" 

"An  old  college  friendship,  Sir  Miles." 

"The  army  will  not  do  for  him,  eh?" 


LUCRETIA.  65 

"He  is  too  clever  for  it,  "sir." 

"Ah,  he'd  make  a  lawyer,  I  suppose — glib  tongue  enough! 
And  can  talk  well, — and  lie,  if  he's  paid  for  it?" 

"I  don't  know  how  lawyers  regard  those  matters,  Sir  Miles; 
but  if  you  don't  make  him  a  lawyer,  Tarn  sure  you  must  leave 
him  an  honest  man." 

"Really  and  truly — '" 

"Upon  my  honor  I  think  so." 

"Good-day  to  you,  and  good  luck.  You  must  catch  the 
coach  at  the  lodge;  for,  I  see  by  the  papers  that,  in  spite  of 
all  the  talk  about  peace,  they  are  raising  regiments  like 
wildfire." 

With  very  different  feelings  from  those  with  which  he  had 
entered  the  room,  Ardworth  quitted  it.  He  hurried  into  his 
own  chamber  to  thrust  his  clothes  into  his  portmanteau,  and, 
while  thus  employed,  Mainwaring  entered. 

"Joy,  my  dear  fellow!  wish  me  joy!  I  am  going  to  town — 
into  the  army — abroad — to  be  shot  at,  thank  Heaven!  That 
dear  old  gentleman! — just  throw  me  that  coat,  will  you?" 

A  very  few  more  words  sufficed  to  explain  what  had  passed  to 
Mainwaring;  he  sighed  when  his  friend  had  finished:  "I  wish 
I  were  going  with  you!" 

"Do  you?  Sir  Miles  has  only  got  to  write  another  letter  to 
the  Horse  Guards;  but  no,  you  are  meant  to  be  something 
better  than  food  for  powder;  and,  besides,  your  Lucretia! 
Hang  it,  I  am  sorry  I  cannot  stay  to  examine  her  as  I  had 
promised ;  but  I  have  seen  enough  to  know  that  she  certainly 
loves  you.  Ah,  when  she  changed  flowers  with  you,  you  did 
not  think  I  saw  you — sly,  was  not  I?  Pshaw!  she  was  only  play- 
ing with  Vernon !  But  still,  do  you  know,  Will,  now  that  Sir 
Miles  has  spoken  to  me  so,  that  I  could  have  sobbed  'God  bless 
you,  my  old  boy!'  'pon  my  life,  I  could! — now  do  you  know 
that  I  feel  enraged  with  you  for  abetting  that  girl  to  deceive 
him." 

' '  I  am  enraged  with  myself ;  and — ' '  Here  a  servant  entered 
and  informed  Mainwaring  that  he  had  been  searching  for  him ; 
Sir  Miles  requested  to  see  him  in  his  room.  Mainwaring 
started  like  a  culprit.  Never  fear,"  whispered  Ardworth;  "he 
has  no  suspicion  of  you,  I'm  sure.  Shake  hands;  when  shall 
we  meet  again?  Is  it  not  odd,  I  who  am  a  Republican  by  theory, 
taking  King  George's  pay  to  fight  against  the  French?  No  use 
stopping  now  to  moralize  on  such  contradictions.  John — Tom, 
what's  your  name — here,  my  man,  here,  throw  that  portmanteau 
on  your  shoulder,  and  come  to  the  lodge."  And  so,  full  of 


66  LUCRETIA. 

health,  hope,  vivacity,  and  spirit,  "John  Walter  Ardworth  de- 
parted on  his  career. 

Meanwhile,  Mainwaring  slowly  took  his  way  to  Sir  Miles. 
As  he  approached  the  gallery,  he  met  Lucretia,  who  was  com- 
ing from  her  own  room.  "Sir  Miles  has  sent  forme,"  he  said 
meaningly.  He  had  time  for  no  more,  for  the  valet  was  at  the 
door  of  the  gallery,  waiting  to  usher  him  to  his  host. 

' '  Ha !  you  will  say  not  a  word  that  can  betray  us ;  guard  your 
looks,  too!"  whispered  Lucretia  hurriedly;  "afterwards,  join 
me  by  the  cedars."  She  passed  on  towards  the  staircase,  and 
glanced  at  the  large  clock  that  was  placed  there.  "Past  eleven  ; 
Vernon  is  never  up  before  twelve.  I  must  see  him  before  my 
uncle  sends  for  me,  as  he  will  send  if  he  suspects — "  She 
paused,  went  back  to  her  room,  rang  for  her  maid,  dressed  as 
for  walking,  and  said,  carelessly:  "If  Sir  Miles  wants  me,  I  am 
gone  to  the  rectory,  and  shall  probably  return  by  the  village, 
so  that  I  shall  be  back  about  one."  Towards  the  rectory,  in- 
deed, Lucretia  bent  her  way;  but  half-way  there,  turned  back, 
and  passing  through  the  plantation  at  the  rear  of  die  house, 
.awaited  Mainwaring  on  the  bench  beneath  the  cedars.  He 
was  not  long  before  he  joined  her.  His  face  was  sad  and 
thoughtful;  and  when  he  seated  himself  by  her  side,  it  was  with 
a  weariness  of  spirit  that  alarmed  her. 

"Well,"  said  she  fearfully,  and  she  placed  her  hand  on  his. 

"Oh,  Lucretia,"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  pressed  that  hand,  with 
an  emotion  that  came  from  other  passions  than  love,  "we,  or 
rather  /,  have  done  great  wrong.  I  have  been  leading  you  to 
betray  your  uncle's  trust,  to  convert  your  gratitude  to  him  into 
hypocrisy.  I  have  been  unworthy  of  myself.  I  am  poor,  I  am 
humbly  born ;  but,  till  I  came  here,  I  was  rich  and  proud  in 
honor.  I  am  not  so  now.  Lucretia,  pardon  me — pardon  me ! 
Let  the  dream  be  over ;  we  must  not  sin  thus ;  for  it  is,  and 
the  worst  of  sin — treachery.  We  must  part:  forget  me!" 

"Forget  you!  Never,  never,  never!"  cried  Lucretia,  with 
suppressed,  but  most  earnest,  vehemence,  her  breast  heaving, 
her  hands,  as  he  dropped  the  one  he  held, clasped  together,  her 
eyes,  full  of  tears,  transformed  at  once  into  softness,  meek- 
ness, even  while  racked  by  passion  and  despair. 

"Oh,  William,  say  anything — reproach,  chide,  despise  me, 
for  mine  is  all  the  fault ;  say  anything  but  that  word — 'part.'  I 
have  chosen  you,  I  have  sought  you  out,  I  have  wooed  you  if 
you  will ;  be  it  so.  I  cling  to  you,  you  are  my  all — all  that 
saves  me  from — from  myself,"  she  added  falteringly,  and  in 
a  hollow  voice.  "Your  love — you  know  not  what  it  is  to  me.' 


LUCRETIA.  67 

I  scarcely  knew  it  myself  before.     I  feel  what  it  is  now,  when 
you  say  'part. '  ' 

Agitated  and  tortured,  Mainwaring  writhed  at  these  burning 
words,  bent  his  face  low,  and  covered  it  with  his  hands. 

He  felt  her  clasp  struggling  to  withdraw  them,  yielded,  and 
saw  her  kneeling  at  his  feet.  His  manhood,  and  his  gratitude, 
and  his  heart,  all  moved  by  that  sight  in  one  so  haughty,  he 
opened  his  arms,  and  she  fell  on  his  breast.  "You  will  never 
say  'part'  again,  William?"  she  gasped  convulsively. 

"But  what  are  we  to  do?" 

"Say,  first, what  has  passed  between  you  and  my  uncle." 

"Little  to  relate ;  for  I  can  repeat  words,  not  tones  and  looks. 
Sir  Miles  spoke  to  me,  at  first  kindly  and  encouragingly,  about 
my  prospects,  said  it  was  time  that  I  should  fix  myself,  added 
a  few  words  with  menacing  emphasis  against  what  he  called 
'idle  dreams  and  desultory  ambition,' and  observing  that  I 
changed  countenance — for  I  felt  that  I  did — his  manner  be- 
came more  cold  and  severe.  Lucretia,  if  he  has  not  detected 
our  secret,  he  more  than  suspects  my — my  presumption. 
Finally,  he  said,  dryly,  that  I  had  better  return  home,  consult 
with  my  father,  and  that  if  I  preferred  entering  into  the  service 
of  the  government  to  any  mercantile  profession,  he  thought 
he  had  sufficient  interest  to  promote  my  views.  But,  clearly 
and  distinctly,  he  left  on  my  mind  one  impression :  that  my 
visits  here  are  over." 

"Did  he  allude  to  me — to  Mr.  Vernon?" 

"Ah,  Lucretia.  Do  you  know  him  so  little — his  delicacy,  his 
pride?" 

Lucretia  was  silent,  and  Mainwaring  continued : 

"I  felt  that  I  was  dismissed;  I  took  my  leave  of  your  uncle; 
I  came  hither  with  the  intention  to  say  farewell  forever." 

"Hush,  hush!  That  thought  is  over!  And  you  return  to 
your  father's ;  perhaps  better  so ;  it  is  but  hope  deferred :  and, 
in  your  absence,  I  can  the  more  easily  allay  all  suspicion,  if 
suspicion  exist;  but  I  must  write  to  you ;  we  must  correspond. 
William,  dear  William,  write  often,  write  kindly ;  tell  me  in 
every  letter,  that  you  love  me — that  you  love  only  me — that 
you  will  be  patient,  and  confide." 

"Dear  Lucretia,"  said  Mainwaring  tenderly,  and  moved  by 
the  pathos  of  her  earnest  and  imploring  voice:  "but  you  for- 
get; the  bag  is  always  brought  first  to  Sir  Miles;  he  will  rec- 
ognize my  hand ;  and  to  whom  can  you  trust  your  own  letters?" 

"True,"  replied  Lucretia  despondingly ;  and  there  was  a 
pause:  suddenly  she  lifted  her  head,  and  cried:  "but  your 


68  LUCRETIA. 

father's  house  is  not  far  from  this — not  ten  miles — we  can  find 
a  spot  at  the  remote  end  of  the  park,  near  the  path  through  the 
great  wood;  there  I  can  leave  my  letters;  there  I  can  find 
yours." 

"But  it  must  be  seldom.  If  any  of  Sir  Miles's  servants  see 
me,  if — " 

"Oh,  William,  William,  this  is  not  the  language  of  love!" 

"Forgive  me,  I  think  of  you!" 

"Love  thinks  of  nothing  but  itself;  it  is  tyrannical,  absorb- 
ing; it  forgets  even  the  object  loved,  it  feeds  on  danger,  it 
strengthens  by  obstacles,"  said  Lucretia,  tossing  her  hair  from 
her  forehead,  and  with  an  expression  of  dark  and  wild  power 
on  her  brow  and  in  her  eyes:  "Fear  not  for  me,  I  am  sufficient 
guard  upon  myself;  even  while  I  speak,  I  think ;  yes,  I  have 
thought  of  the  very  spot.  You  remember  that  hollow  oak  at 
the  bottom  of  the  dell,  in  which  Guy  St.  John,  the  cavalier,  is 
said  to  have  hid  himself  from  Fairfax's  soldiers.  Every  Mon- 
day I  will  leave  a  letter  in  that  hollow ;  every  Tuesday  you  can 
search  for  it  and  leave  your  own.  This  is  but  once  a  week ; 
there  is  no  risk  here." 

Main  waring' s  conscience  still  smote  him;  but  he  had  not 
the  strength  to  resist  the  energy  of  Lucretia.  The  force  of  her 
character  seized  upon  the  weak  part  of  his  own :  its  gentleness, 
its  fear  of  inflicting  pain,  its  reluctance  to  say  "no" — that 
simple  cause  of  misery  to  the  over-timid.  A  few  sentences 
more,  full  of  courage,  confidence,  and  passion,  on  the  part  of 
the  woman,  of  constraint,  and  yet  of  soothed  and  grateful  affec- 
tion, on  that  of  the  man,  and  the  affianced  parted. 

Mainwaring  had  already  given  orders  to  have  his  trunks 
sent  to  him  at  his  father's;  and,  a  hardy  pedestrian  by  habit, 
he  now  struck  across  the  park,  passed  the  dell  and  the  hollow 
tree,  commonly  called  "Guy's  Oak,"  and  across  woodland  and 
fields  golden  with  ripening  corn,  took  his  way  to  the  town,  in 
the  center  of  which,  square,  solid,  and  imposing,  stood  the  re- 
spectable residence  of  his  bustling,  active,  electioneering  father. 

Lucretia's  eye  followed  a  form  as  fair  as  ever  captivated 
maiden's  glance  till  it  was  out  of  sight;  and  then,  as  she 
emerged  from  the  shade  of  the  cedars  into  the  more  open  space 
of  the  garden,  her  usual  thoughtful  composure  was  restored  to 
her  steadfast  countenance.  On  the  terrace  she  caught  sight  of 
Vernon,  who  had  just  quitted  his  own  room,  where  he  always 
breakfasted  alone,  and  who  was  now  languidly  stretched  on  a 
bench,  and  basking  in  the  sun.  Like  all  who  have  abused  life, 
Vernon  was  not  the  same  man  in  the  early  part  of  the  day. 


LUCRETIA.  69 

The  spirits  that  rose  to  temperate  heat  the  third  hour  after 
noon,  and  expanded  into  glow  when  the  lights  shone  over  the 
gay  carousers,  at  morning  were  flat  and  exhausted.  With  hol- 
low eyes,  and  that  weary  fall  of  the  muscles  of  the  cheeks 
which  betrays  the  votary  of  Bacchus,  the  convivial  three- 
bottle  man,  Charley  Vernon  forced  a  smile,  meant  to  be  airy 
and  impertinent,  to  his  pale  lips,  as  he  rose  with  effort,  and 
extended  three  fingers  to  his  cousin. 

"Where  have  you  been  hiding?  Catching  bloom  from  the 
roses?  You  have  the  prettiest  shade  of  color — just  enough — 
not  a  hue  too  much.  And  there  is  Sir  Miles's  valet  gone  to  the 
rectory,  and  the  fat  footman  puffing  away  towards  the  village, 
and  I,  like  a  faithful  •  warden,  from  my  post  at  the  castle,  all 
looking  out  for  the  truant." 

"But  who  wants  me,  cousin?"  said  Lucretia,  with  the  full 
blaze  of  her  rare  and  captivating  smile. 

"The  knight  of  Laughton  confessedly  wants  thee,  O  damsel! 
The  knight  of  the  Bleeding  Heart  may  want  thee  more — dare 
he  own  it?" 

And  with  a  hand  that  trembled  a  little,  not  with  love — at 
least  it  trembled  always  a  little  before  the  Madeira  at  luncheon — 
he  lifted  hers  to  his  lips. 

"Compliments  again,  words — idle  words!"  said  Lucretia, 
looking  down  bashfully. 

"How  can  I  convince  thee  of  my  sincerity,  unless  thou  takest 
my  life  as  its  pledge,  maid  of  Laughton?" 

And  very  much  tired  of  standing,  Charley  Vernon  drew  her 
gently  to  the  bench,  and  seated  himself  by  her  side.  Lucretia's 
eyes  were  still  downcast,  and  she  remained  silent;  Vernon, 
suppressing  a  yawn,  felt  that  he  was  bound  to  continue.  There 
was  nothing  very  formidable  in  Lucretia's  manner. 

"Fore  Gad!"  thought  he,  "I  suppose  I  must  take  the  heir- 
ess after  all ;  the  sooner  'tis  over,  the  sooner  I  can  get  back  to 
Brook  Street." 

"It  is  premature,  my  fair  cousin,"  said  he,  aloud;  "prema- 
ture after  less  than  a  week's  visit,  and  only  some  fourteen  or 
fifteen  hours'  permitted  friendship  and  intimacy,  to  say  what 
is  uppermost  in  my  thoughts,  but  we  spendthrifts  are  slow  at 
nothing,  not  even  at  wooing.  By  sweet  Venus,  then,  fair  cousin, 
you  look  provokingly  handsome!  Sir  Miles,  your  good  uncle, 
is  pleased  to  forgive  all  my  follies  and  faults,  upon  one  con- 
dition, that  you  will  take  on  yourself  the  easy  task  to  reform 
me.  Will  you,  my  fair  cousin?  Such  as  I  am,  you  behold  me! 
I  am.  no  sinner  in  the  disguise  of  a  saint!  My  fortune  is  spent; 


70  LUCRETIA. 

my  health  is  not  strong;  but  a  young  widow's  is  no  mournful 
position.  I  am  gay  when  I  am  well ;  good-tempered  when 
ailing.  I  never  betrayed  a  trust — can  you  trust  me  with  your- 
self?" 

This  was  a  long  speech,  and  Charley  Vernon  felt  pleased  that 
it  was  over.  There  was  much  in  it  that  would  have  touched 
a  heart  even  closed  to  him,  and  a  little  genuine  emotion  had 
given  light  to  his  eyes  and  color  to  his  cheek.  Amidst  all  the 
ravages  of  dissipation,  there  was  something  interesting  in  his 
countenance,  and  manly  in  his  tone  and  his  gesture.  But 
Lucretia  was  only  sensible  to  one  part  of  his  confession — her 
uncle  had  consented  to  his  suit.  This  was  all  of  which  she 
desired  to  be  assured,  and  against  this  she  now  sought  to  screen 
herself. 

"Your  candor,  Mr.  Vernon,"  she  said,  avoiding  his  eye, 
"deserves  candor  in  me.  I  cannot  affect  to  misunderstand 
you ;  but  you  take  me  by  surprise — I  was  so  unprepared  for 
this.  Give  me  time;  I  must  reflect. " 

"Reflection  is  dull  work  in  the  country;  you  can  reflect 
more  amusingly  in  town,  my  fair  cousin." 

"I  will  wait,  then,  till  I  find  myself  in  town." 

"Ah,  you  make  me  the  happiest,  the  most  grateful  of  men," 
cried  Mr.  Vernon,  rising  with  a  semi-genuflexion,  which  seemed 
to  imply.  "Consider  yourself  knelt  to,"  just  as  a  courteous 
assailer,  with  a  motion  of  the  hand,  implies,  "Consider  yourself 
horsewhipped." 

Lucretia,  who,  with  all  her  intellect,  had  no  capacity  for  hu- 
mor, recoiled  and  looked  up  in  positive  surprise. 

"I  do  not  understand  you,  Mr.  Vernon,"  she  said,  with  aus- 
tere gravity. 

"Allow  me  the  bliss  of  flattering  myself  that  you,  at  least 
are  understood,"  replied  Charley  Vernon,  with  imperturbable 
assurance.  "You  will  wait  to  reflect  till  you  are  in  town ;  that 
is  to  say,  the  day  after  our  honeymoon,  when  you  awake  in 
Mayfair. " 

Before  Lucretia  could  reply,  she  saw  the  indefatigable  valet 
formally  approaching,  with  the  anticipated  message  that  Sir 
Miles  requested  to  see  her.  She  replied  hurriedly  to  this  last, 
that  she  would  be  with  her  uncle  immediately,  and  when  he  had 
again  disappeared  within  the  porch,  she  said,  with  a  constrained 
effort  at  frankness: 

"Mr.  Vernon,  if  I  have  misunderstood  your  words,  I  think 
I  do  not  mistake  your  character.  You  cannot  wish  to  take  ad- 
Vantage  of  my  affection  for  my  uncle,  and  the  passive  obedience 


LUCRETIA.  71 

I  owe  to  him,  to  force  me  into  a  step — of  which — of  which— 
I  have  not  yet  sufficiently  considered  the  results.  If  you  really 
desire  that  my  feelings  should  be  consulted,  that  I  should 
not — pardon  me — consider  myself  sacrificed  to  the  family  pride 
of  my  guardian,  and  the  interests  of  my  suitor — " 

"Madam!"  exclaimed  Vernon,  reddening. 

Pleased  with  the  irritating  effect  her  words  had  produced, 
Lucretia  continued  calmly:  "  If,  in  a  word,  I  am  to  be  a  free 
agent  in  a  choice  on  which  my  happiness  depends,  forbear  to 
urge  Sir  Miles  further  at  present — forbear  to  press  your  suit 
upon  me.  Give  me  the  delay  of  a  few  months :  I  shall  know 
how  to  appreciate  your  delicacy." 

"Miss  Clavering, "  answered  Vernon,  with  a  touch  of  the 
St.  John  haughtiness,  "I  am  in  despair  that  you  should  even 
think  so  grave  an  appeal  to  my  honor  necessary.  I  am  well 
aware  of  your  expectations  and  my  poverty.  And  believe  me, 
I  would  rather  rot  in  a  prison  than  enrich  myself  by  forcing 
your  inclinations.  You  have  tmt  to  say  the  word,  and  I  will 
(as  becomes  me  as  man  and  gentleman)  screen  you  from  all 
chance  of  Sir  Miles's  displeasure,  by  taking  it  on  myself  to  de- 
cline an  honor  of  which  I  feel,  indeed,  very  undeserving." 

"But  I  have  offended  you,"  said  Lucretia  softly,  while  she 
turned  aside  to  conceal  the  glad  light  of  her  eyes ;  '  'pardon  me ; 
and,  to  prove  that  you  do  so,  give  me  your  arm  to  my  uncle's 
room." 

Vernon,  with  rather  more  of  Sir  Miles's  antiquated  stiffness 
than  his  own  rakish  ease,  offered  his  arm,  with  a  profound 
reverence,  to  his  cousin ;  and  they  took  their  way  to  the  house. 
Not  till  they  had  passed  up  the  stairs,  and  were  even  in  the 
gallery,  did  further  words  pass  between  them.  Then  Vernon 
said:  "But  what  is  your  wish,  Miss  Clavering?  On  what 
footing  shall  I  remain  here?" 

"Will  you  suffer  me  to  dictate?"  replied  Lucretia,  stopping 
short  with  well-feigned  confusion,  as  if  suddenly  aware  that  the 
right  to  dictate  gives  the  right  to  hope. 

"Ah,  consider  me  at  least  as  your  slave!"  whispered  Ver- 
non, as  his  eye  resting  on  the  contour  of  that  matchless 
neck,  partially  and  advantageously  turned  from  him,  he  began 
with  his  constitutional  admiration  of  the  sex  to  feel  interested 
in  a  pursuti  that  now  seemed,  after  piquing,  to  flatter  his 
self-love. 

"Then  I  will  use  the  privilege  when  we  meet  again,"  an- 
swered Lucretia ;  and  drawing  her  arm  gently  from  his,  she 
passed  on  to  her  uncle,  leaving  Vernon  midway  in  the  gallery. 


^2  LUCRETIA. 

Those  faded  portraits  looked  down  on  her  with  that  melan- 
choly gloom  which  the  effigies  of  our  dead  ancestors  seem  mys- 
teriously to  acquire.  To  noble  and  aspiring  spirits,  no  homily 
to  truth,  and  honor,  and  fair  ambition  is  more  eloquent,  than 
the  mute  and  melancholy  canvas  from  which  our  fathers,  made, 
by  death,  our  household  gods,  contemplate  us  still.  They  ap- 
pear to  confide  to  us  the  charge  of  their  unblemished  names. 
They  speak  to  us  from  the  grave,  and,  heard  aright,  the  pride 
of  family  is  the  guardian  angel  of  its  heirs.  But  Lucretia, 
with  her  hard  and  scholastic  mind,  despised  as  the  veriest  weak- 
ness all  the  poetry  that  belongs  to  the  sense  of  a  pure  descent. 
It  was  because  she  was  proud  as  the  proudest  in  herself,  that 
she  had  nothing  but  contempt  for  the  virtue,  the  valor,  or  the 
wisdom  of  those  that  had  gone  before.  So  with  a  brain  busy 
with  guile  and  stratagem,  she  trod  on  beneath  the  eyes  of  the 
simple  and  spotless  Dead. 

Vernon,  thus  left  alone,  mused  a  few  moments  on  what  had 
passed  between  himself  and  the  heiress,  and  then  slowly  retrac- 
ing his  steps,  his  eye  roved  along  the  stately  series  of  his  line. 
"Faith!"  he  muttered,  "if  my  boyhood  had  been  passed  in 
this  old  gallery,  His  Royal  Highness  would  have  lost  a  good 
fellow  and  hard  drinker;  and  His  Majesty  would  have  had, 
perhaps,  a  more  distinguished  soldier — certainly,  a  worthier 
subject.  If  I  marry  this  lady,  and  we  are  blessed  with  a  son, 
he  shall  walk  through  this  gallery  once  a  day,  before  he  is 
flogged  into  Latin ! ' ' 

Lucretia's  interview  with  her  uncle  was  a  masterpiece  of  art. 
What  pity  that  such  craft  and  subtlety  were  wasted  in  our  little 
day,  and  on  such  petty  objects;  under  the  Medici,  that  spirit 
had  gone  far  to  the  shaping  of  history.  Sure,  from  her  uncle's 
openness,  that  he  would  plunge  at  once  into  the  subject  for 
which  she  deemed  she  was  summoned,  she  evinced  no  repug- 
nance, when,  tenderly  kissing  her,  he  asked,  "If  Charles  Ver- 
non had  a  chance  of  winning  favor  in  her  eyes?"  She  knew 
that  she  was  safe  in  saying  "No"  :  that  her  uncle  would  never 
force  her  inclinations.  Safe  so  far  as  Vernon  was  concerned ; 
but  she  desired  more;  she  desired  thoroughly  to  quench  all 
suspicion  that  her  heart  was  pre-occupied ;  entirely  to  remove 
from  Sir  Miles's  thoughts  the  image  of  Mainwaring;  and  a 
denial  of  one  suitor  might  quicken  the  Baronet's  eyes  to  the 
concealment  of  the  other.  Nor  was  this  all :  if  Sir  Miles  was 
seriously  bent  upon  seeing  her  settled  in  marriage  before  his 
death,  the  dismissal  of  Vernon  might  only  expose  her  to  the 
importunity  of  new  candidates,  more  difficult  to  deal  with. 


LttCRETU.  73 

Vernon  himself  she  could  use  as  the  shield  against  the  arrows 
of  a  host.  Therefore,  when  Sir  Miles  repeated  his  question, 
she  answered  with  much  gentleness  and  seeming  modest  sense, 
that  "Mr.  Vernon  had  much  that  must  prepossess  in  his 
favor;  that  in  addition  to  his  own  advantages  he  had  one,  the 
highest  in  her  eyes,  her  uncle's  sanction  and  approval.  But," 
and  she  hesitated  with  becoming  and  natural  diffidence,  "were 
not  his  habits  unfixed  and  roving?  So  it  was  said;  she  knew 
not  herself;  she  would  trust  her  happiness  to  her  uncle.  But 
if  so,  and  if  Mr.  Vernon  were  really  disposed  to  change,  would 
it  not  be  prudent  to  try  him — try  him  where  there  was  tempta- 
tion; not  in  the  repose  of  Laughton,  but  amidst  his  own 
haunts  of  London?  Sir  Miles  had  friends  who  would  honestly 
inform  him  of  the  result.  She  did  but  suggest  this :  she  was 
too  ready  to  leave  all  to  her  dear  guardian's  acuteness  and 
experience." 

Melted  by  her  docility,  and  in  high  approval  of  the  pru- 
dence which  betokened  a  more  rational  judgment  than  he  him- 
self had  evinced,  the  good  old  man  clasped  her  to  his  breast, 
and  shed  tears  as  he  praised  and  thanked  her;  she  had  de- 
cided, as  she  always  did,  for  the  best.  Heaven  forbid  that  she 
should  be  wasted  on  an  incorrigible  man  of  pleasure!  "And," 
said  the  frank-hearted  gentleman,  unable  longer  to  keep  any 
thought  concealed;  "And  to  think  that  I  could  have  wronged 
you,  for  a  moment,  my  own  noble  child !  That  I  could  have  been 
dolt  enough  to  suppose  that  the  good  looks  of  that  boy  Main- 
waring  might  have  caused  you  to  forget  what — but  you  change 
color!"  For,  with  all  her  dissimulation,  Lucretia  loved  too 
ardently  not  to  shrink  at  that  name  thus  suddenly  pronounced. 
"Oh, "  continued  the  Baronet,  drawing  her  towards  him  still 
more  closely,  while  with  one  hand  he  put  back  her  face  that  he 
might  read  its  expression  the  more  closely ;  "Oh,  if  it  had  been 
so — if  it  be  so,  I  will  pity,  not  blame  you,  for  my  neglect  was 
the  fault ;  pity  you,  for  I  have  known  a  similar  struggle ;  ad- 
mire you  in  pity,  for  you  have  the  spirit  of  your  ancestors, 
and  you  will  conquer  the  weakness.  Speak !  Have  I 
touched  on  the  truth?  Speak  without  fear,  child!  You 
have  no  mother;  but  in  age  a  man  sometimes  gets  a  mother's 
heart." 

Startled  and  alarmed  as  the  lark  when  the  step  nears  its  nest, 
Lucretia  summoned  all  the  dark  wile  of  her  nature  to  mislead 
the  intruder.  "No,  uncle,  no;  I  am  not  so  unworthy.  You 
misconceived  my  emotion." 

"Ah,  you  know  that  he  has  had  the  presumption  to  love 


74  LUCRET1A. 

you — the  puppy!  And  you  feel  the  compassion  you  women 
always  feel  for  such  offenders?  Is  that  it?" 

Rapidly  Lucretia  considered  if  it  would  be  wise  to  leave  that 
impression  on  his  mind;  on  one  hand,  it  might  account  for  a 
moment's  agitation,  and  if  Mainwaring  were  detected  hovering 
near  the  domain,  in  the  exchange  of  their  correspondence,  it 
might  appear  but  the  idle,  if  hopeless,  romance  of  youth,  which 
haunts  the  mere  home  of  its  object;  but,  no;  on  the  other 
hand,  it  left  his  banishment  absolute  and  confirmed.  Her  res- 
olution was  taken  with  a  promptitude  that  made  her  pause  not 
perceptible. 

"No,  my  dear  uncle,"  she  said,  so  cheerfully  that  it  removed 
all  doubt  from  the  mind  of  her  listener,  "but  Monsieur  Dali- 
bard  has  rallied  me  on  the  subject,  and  I  was  so  angry  with 
him,  that  when  you  touched  on  it  I  thought  more  of  my  quar- 
rel with  him  than  of  poor  timid  Mr.  Mainwaring  himself. 
Come  now,  own  it,  dear  sir!  Monsieur  Dalibard  has  instilled 
this  strange  fancy  into  your  head." 

"No,  'Slife:  if  he  had  taken  such  a  liberty,  I  should  have 
lost  my  librarian.  No,  I  assure  you,  it  was  rather  Vernon : 
you  know  true  love  is  jealous." 

"Vernon!"  thought  Lucretia;  "he  must  go,  and  at  once." 
Sliding  from  her  uncle's  arms  to  the  stool  at  his  feet,  she  then 
led  the  conversation  more  familiarly  back  into  the  channel  it 
had  lost,  and  when  at  last  she  escaped,  it  was  with  the  under- 
standing that,  without  promise  or  compromise,  Mr.  Vernon 
should  return  to  London  at  once,  and  be  put  upon  the  ordeal, 
through  which  she  felt  assured  it  was  little  likely  he  should 
pass  with  success. 

CHAPTER  IV. 

GUY'S  OAK. 

THREE  weeks  afterwards,  the  life  at  Laughton  seemed  re- 
stored to  the  cheerful  and  somewhat  monotonous  tranquillity 
of  its  course,  before  chafed  and  disturbed  by  the  recent  inter- 
ruptions to  the  stream.  Vernon  had  departed,  satisfied  with 
the  justice  of  the  trial  imposed  on  him,  and  far  too  high- 
spirited  to  seek  to  extort  from  niece  or  uncle  any  engagement 
beyond  that  which,  to  a  nice  sense  of  honor,  the  trial  itself  im- 
posed. His  memory  and  his  heart  were  still  faithful  to  Mary; 
but  his  senses,  his  fancy,  his  vanity,  were  a  little  involved  in 
his  success  with  the  heiress.  Though  so  free  from  all  merce- 


LUCRKTIA.  75 

nary  meanness,  Mr.  Vernon  was  still  enough  man  of  the  world 
to  be  sensible  of  the  advantages  of  the  alliance  which  had  first 
been  pressed  on  him  by  Sir  Miles ;  and  from  which  Lucretia 
herself  appeared  not  to  be  averse.  The  season  of  London  was 
over,  but  there  was  always  a  set,  and  that  set  the  one  in  which 
Charley  Vernon  principally  moved,  who  found  town  fuller  than 
the  country.  Besides  he  went  occasionally  to  Brighton,  which 
was  then  to  England  what  Baise  was  to  Rome.  The  Prince  was 
holding  gay  court  at  the  Pavilion,  and  that  was  the  atmosphere 
which  Vernon  was  habituated  to  breathe.  He  was  no  parasite 
of  royalty:  he  had  that  strong  personal  affection  to  the  Prince 
which  it  is  often  the  good  fortune  of  royalty  to  attract.  Nothing 
is  less  founded  than  the  complaint  which  poets  put  into  the  lips 
of  princes,  that  they  have  no  friends ;  it  is,  at  least,  their  own 
perverse  fault  if  that  be  the  case ;  a  little  amiability,  a  little 
of  frank  kindness,  goes  so  far  when  it  emanates  from  the  rays 
of  a  crown!  But  Vernon  was  stronger  than  Lucretia  deemed 
him ;  once  contemplating  the  prospect  of  a  union  which  was  to 
consign  to  his  charge  the  happiness  of  another,  and  feeling  all 
that  he  should  owe  in  such  a  marriage  to  the  confidence  both 
of  niece  and  uncle,  he  evinced  steadier  principles  than  he  had 
ever  made  manifest,  when  he  had  only  his  own  fortune  to  mar, 
and  his  own  happiness  to  trifle  with.  He  joined  his  old  compan- 
ions ;  but  he  kept  aloof  from  their  more  dissipated  pursuits. 
Beyond  what  was  then  thought  the  venial  error  of  too  devout 
libations  to  Bacchus,  Charley  Vernon  seemed  reformed. 

Ardworth  had  joined  a  regiment  which  had  departed  for  the 
field  of  action.  Mainwaring  was  still  with  his  father,  and  had 
not  yet  announced  to  Sir  Miles  any  wish  or  project  for  the 
future. 

Olivier  Dalibard,  as  before,  passed  his  mornings  alone  in  his 
chamber,  his  noon  and  his  evenings  with  Sir  Miles.  He 
avoided  all  private  conferences  with  Lucretia.  She  did  not 
provoke  them.  Young  Gabriel  amused  himself  in  copying  Sir 
Miles's  pictures,  sketching  from  Nature,  scribbling  in  his 
room,  prose  or  verse,  no  matter  which  (he  never  showed  his 
lucubrations)  pinching  the  dogs  when  he  could  catch  them 
alone,  shooting  the  cats,  if  they  appeared  in  the  plantation,  on 
pretence  of  love  for  the  young  pheasants,  sauntering  into  the 
cottages,  where  he  was  a  favorite,  because  of  his  good  looks, 
but  where  he  always  contrived  to  leave  the  trace  of  his  visits 
in  disorder  and  mischief,  upsetting  the  tea-kettle  and  scalding 
the  children,  or,  what  he  loved  dearly,  setting  two  gossips  by 
the  ears.  But  these  occupations  were  over  by  the  hour  Lucre- 


76  LUCRETiA. 

tia  left  her  apartment.  From  that  time  he  never  left  her  out 
of  view ;  and,  when  encouraged  to  join  her  at  his  usual  privi- 
leged times,  whether  in  the  gardens  at  sunset,  or  in  her  even- 
ing niche  in  the  drawing-room,  he  was  sleek,  silken,  and  caress- 
ing as  Cupid,  after  plaguing  the  Nymphs,  at  the  feet  of  Psyche. 
These  two  strange  persons  had  indeed  apparently  that  sort  of 
sentimental  familiarity  which  is  sometimes  seen  between  a  fair 
boy  and  a  girl  much  older  than  himself;  but  the  attraction  that 
drew  them  together  was  an  indefinable  instinct  of  their  simi- 
larity in  many  traits  of  their  several  characters — the  whelp- 
leopard  sported  fearlessly  round  the  she-panther.  Before 
Olivier's  midnight  conference  with  his  son,  Gabriel  had  drawn 
closer  and  closer  to  Lucretia,  as  an  ally  against  his  father ;  for 
that  father  he  cherished  feelings  which,  beneath  the  most  docile 
obedience,  concealed  horror  and  hate  and  something  of  the 
ferocity  of  revenge.  And  if  young  Varney  loved  any  one  on 
earth  except  himself,  it  was  Lucretia  Clavering.  She  had  ad- 
ministered to  his  ruling  passions,  which  were  for  effect  and  dis- 
play ;  she  had  devised  the  dress  which  set  off  to  the  utmost  his 
exterior,  and  gave  it  that  picturesque  and  artistic  appearance 
which  he  had  sighed  for  in  his  study  of  the  portraits  of  Titian 
and  Vandyke.  She  supplied  him  (for  in  money  she  was  gener- 
ous) with  enough  to  gratify  and  forestall  every  boyish  caprice, 
and  this  liberality  now  turned  against  her,  for  it  had  increased 
into  a  settled  vice  his  natural  taste  for  extravagance,  and  made 
all  other  considerations  subordinate  to  that  of  feeding  his 
cupidity.  She  praised  his  drawings,  which,  though  self-taught, 
were  indeed  extraordinary ;  predicted  his  fame  as  an  artist ; 
lifted  him  into  consequence  amongst  the  guests  by  her  notice 
and  eulogies;  and  what,  perhaps,  won  him  more  than  all,  he 
felt  that  it  was  to  her — to  Dalibard's  desire  to  conceal  before 
her  his  more  cruel  propensities — that  he  owed  his  father's 
change  from  the  most  refined  severity  to  the  most  paternal 
gentleness. 

And  thus  he  had  repaid  her,  as  she  expected,  by  a  devotion 
which  she  trusted  to  employ  against  her  tutor  himself,  should 
the  baffled  aspirant  become  the  scheming  rival  and  the  secret 
foe.  But  now,  thoroughly  aware  of  the  gravity  of  his  father's 
objects,  seeing  before  him  the  chance  of  a  settled  establish- 
ment at  Laughton,  a  positive  and  influential  connection  with 
Lucretia ;  and  on  the  other  hand,  a  return  to  the  poverty  he 
recalled  with  disgust,  and  the  terrors  of  his  father's  solitary 
malice  and  revenge,  he  entered  fully  into  Dalibard's  sombre 
plans,  and,  without  scruple  or  remorse,  would  have  abetted 


LUCREftA.  ?7 

any  harm  to  his  benefactress.  Thus  craft  doomed  to  have 
accomplices  in  craft  resembles  the  spider  whose  web,  spread 
indeed  for  the  fly,  attracts  the  fellow-spider  that  shall  thrust 
it  forth,  and  profit  by  the  meshes  it  has  woven  for  a  victim, 
to  surrender  to  a  master. 

Already  young  Varney,  set  quietly  and  ceaselessly  to  spy 
every  movement  of  Lucretia's,  had  reported  to  his  father  two 
visits  to  the  most  retired  part  of  the  park ;  but  he  had  not  yet 
ventured  near  enough  to  discover  the  exact  spot,  and  his  very 
watch  on  Lucretia  had  prevented  the  detection  of  Mainwaring 
himself  in  his  stealthy  exchange  of  correspondence.  Dalibard 
bade  him  continue  his  watch,  without  hinting  at  his  ulterior 
intentions,  for,  indeed,  in  these  he  was  not  decided.  Even 
should  he  discover  any  communication  between  Lucretia  and 
Mainwaring,  how  reveal  it  to  Sir  Miles  without  forever  pre- 
cluding himself  from  the  chance  of  profiting  by  the  betrayal? 
Could  Lucretia  ever  forgive  the  injury,  and  could  she  fail  to 
detect  the  hand  that  inflicted  it?  His  only  hope  was  in  the 
removal  of  Mainwaring  from  his  path  by  other  agencies  than 
his  own,  and  (by  an  appearance  of  generosity  and  self-aban- 
donment ;  in  keeping  her  secret,  and  submitting  to  his  fate)  he 
trusted  to  regain  the  confidence  she  now  withheld  from  him, 
and  use  it  to  his  advantage  when  the  time  came  to  defend  him- 
self from  Vernon.  For  he  had  learned  from  Sir  Miles  the 
passive  understanding  with  respect  to  that  candidate  for  her 
hand ;  and  he  felt  assured  that  had  Mainwaring  never  existed, 
could  he  cease  to  exist  for  her  hopes,  Lucretia,  despite  her 
dissimulation,  would  succumb  to  one  she  feared  but  respected, 
rather  than  to  one  she  evidently  trifled  with  and  despised. 

"But  the  course  to  be  taken  must  be  adopted  after  the  evi- 
dence is  collected,  "  thought  the  subtle  schemer,  and  he  tran- 
quilly continued  his  chess  with  the  Baronet. 

Before,  however,  Gabriel  could  make  any  further  discover- 
ies, an  event  occurred  which  excited  very  different  emotions 
amongst  those  it  more  immediately  interested. 

Sir  Miles  had,  during  the  last  twelve  months,  been  visited 
by  two  seizures,  seemingly  of  an  apoplectic  character. 
Whether  they  were  apoplexy  or  the  less  alarming  attacks  that 
arise  from  some  more  gentle  congestion,  occasioned  by  free 
living  and  indolent  habits,  was  matter  of  doubt  with  his  phy- 
sician— not  a  very  skillful,  though  a  very  formal,  man.  Country 
doctors  were  not  then  the  same  able,  educated,  and  scien- 
tific class  that  they  are  now  rapidly  becoming.  Sir  Miles  him- 
self so  stoutly  and  so  eagerly  repudiated  the  least  hint  of  the 


78  LUCREfiA. 

more  unfavorable  interpretation,  that  the  doctor,  if  not  con- 
vinced by  his  patient,  was  awed  from  expressing  plainly  a  con- 
trary opinion.  There  are  certain  persons  who  will  dismiss 
their  physician  if  he  tells  them  the  truth :  Sir  Miles  was  one  of 
them. 

In  his  character  there  was  a  weakness  not  uncommon  to  the 
proud.  He  did  not  fear  death,  but  he  shrank  from  the  thought 
that  others  should  calculate  on  his  dying.  He  was  fond  of  his 
power,  though  he  exercised  it  gently :  he  knew  that  the  power 
of  wealth  and  station  is  enfeebled  in  proportion  as  its  depen- 
dents can  foresee  the  date  of  its  transfer.  He  dreaded,  too, 
the  comments  which  are  always  made  on  those  visited  by  his 
peculiar  disease :  "Poor  Sir  Miles!  An  apoplectic  fit!  His 
intellect  must  be  very  much  shaken — he  revoked  at  whist  last 
night — memory  sadly  impaired!"  This  may  be  a  pitiable 
foible;  but  heroes  and  statesmen  have  had  it  most:  pardon  it 
in  the  proud  old  man.  He  enjoined  the  physician  to  state 
throughout  the  house  and  the  neighborhood  that  the  attacks 
were  wholly  innocent  and  unimportant.  The  physician  did 
so,  and  was  generally  believed ;  for  Sir  Miles  seemed  as  lively 
and  as  vigorous  after  them  as  before.  Two  persons  alone  were 
not  deceived — Dalibard  and  Lucretia.  The  first,  at  an  earlier 
part  ofB  his  life,  had  studied  pathology  with  the-  profound  re- 
search and  ingenious  application  which  he  brought  to  bear 
upon  all  he  undertook.  He  whispered  from  the  first  to 
Lucretia : 

"Unless  your  uncle  changes  his  habits,  takes  exercise,  and 
forbears  wine  and  the  table,  his  days  are  numbered." 

And  when  this  intelligence  was  first  conveyed  to  her,  before 
she  had  become  acquainted  with  Mainwaring,  Lucretia  felt 
the  shock  of  a  grief  sudden  and  sincere.  We  have  seen  how 
these  better  sentiments  changed  as  a  human  life  became  an 
obstacle  in  her  way.  In  her  character,  what  phrenologists  call 
"destructiveness, "  in  the  comprehensive  sense  of  the  word, 
was  superlatively  developed.  She  had  not  actual  cruelty ;  she 
was  not  bloodthirsty:  those  vices  belong  to  a  different  cast  of 
character.  She  was  rather  deliberately  and  intellectually  un- 
sparing: a  goal  was  before  her;  she  must  march  to  it;  all  in 
the  way  were  but  hostile  impediments.  At  first,  however,  Sir 
Miles  was  not  in  the  way,  except  to  fortune,  and  for  that,  as 
avarice  was  not  her  leading  vice,  she  could  well  wait;  there- 
fore, at  this  hint  of  the  Provencal's,  she  ventured  to  urge 
her  uncle  to  abstinence  and  exercise,  but  Sir  Miles  was  touchy 
on  the  subject ;  he  feared  the  interpretations  which  great  change 


LUCRETIA.  ?<) 

of  habits  might  suggest,  the  memory  of  the  fearful  warning 
died  away,  and  he  felt  as  well  as  before,  for,  save  an  old  rheu- 
matic gout  (which  had  long  since  left  him,  with  no  other  appar- 
ent evil  but  a  lameness  in  the  joints  that  rendered  exercise  un- 
welcome and  painful),  he  possessed  one  of  those  comfortable, 
and  often  treacherous  constitutions,  which  evince  no  displeas- 
ure at  irregularities,  and  bear  all  liberties  with  philosophical 
composure.  Accordingly,  he  would  ha/e  his  own  way;  and  he 
contrived  to  coax  or  to  force  his  doctor  to  an  authority  on  his 
side:  wine  was  necessary  to  his  constitution;  much  exercise 
was  a  dangerous  fatigue.  The  second  attack,  following  four 
months  after  the  first,  was  less  alarming,  and  Sir  Miles  fancied 
it  concealed  even  from  his  niece ;  but  three  nights  after  his  re- 
covery, the  old  Baronet  sat  musing  alone  for  some  time  in  his 
own  room  before  he  retired  to  rest.  Then  he  rose,  opened  his 
desk,  and  read  his  will  attentively,  locked  it  up  with  a  slight 
sigh,  and  took  down  his  Bible.  The  next  morning  he  des- 
patched the  letters  which  summoned  Ardworth  and  Vernon  to 
his  house;  and,  as  he  quitted  his  room,  his  look  lingered  with 
melancholy  fondness  upon  the  portraits  in  the  gallery.  No 
one  was  by  the  old  man  to  interpret  these  slight  signs,  in  which 
lay  a  world  of  meaning. 

A  few  weeks  after  Vernon  had  left  the  house,  and  in  the 
midst  of  the  restored  tranquillity  we  have  described,  it  so  hap- 
pened that  Sir  Miles's  physician,  after  dining  at  the  hall,  had 
been  summoned  to  attend  one  of  the  children  at  the  neighbor- 
ing rectory,  and  there  he  spent  the  night.  A  little  before  day- 
break his  slumbers  were  disturbed ;  he  was  recalled  in  all  haste 
to  -Laughton  Hall.  For  the  third  time,  he  found  Sir  Miles 
speechless.  Dalibard  was  by  his  bedside.  Lucretia  had  not 
been  made  aware  of  the  seizure ;  for  Sir  Miles  had  previously 
told  his  valet  (who  of  late  slept  in  the  same  room)  never  to 
alarm  Miss  Clavering  if  he  was  taken  ill.  The  doctor  was 
about  to  apply  his  usual  remedies;  but  when  he  drew  forth 
his  lancet,  Dalibard  placed  his  hand  on  the  physician's 
arm: 

"Not ////.$•  time,"  he  said  slowly,  and  with  emphasis;  "it  will 
be  his  death." 

"Pooh,  sir!"  said  the  doctor  disdainfully. 

"Do  so,  then!     Bleed  him,  and  take  the  responsibility.     I 
have    studied  medicine;    I  know   these   symptoms.      In    this 
case  the  apoplexy  may  spare,  the  lance  kills.'" 
'  The  physician  drew  back  dismayed  and  doubtful. 

"What  would  you  do,  then?" 


&>  LUCRETIA. 

"Wait  three  minutes  longer  the  effect  of  the  cataplasms  I 
have  applied.  If  they  fail — " 

"Ay,  then?" 

"A  chill  bath,  and  vigorous  friction." 

"Sir,  I  will  never  permit  it." 

"Then  murder  your  patient  your  own  way." 

All  this  while  Sir  Miles  lay  senseless,  his  eyes  wide  open,  his 
teeth  locked.  The  doctor  drew  near,  looked  at  the  lancet,  and 
said  irresolutely; 

"Your  practice  is  new  to  me;  but  if  you  have  studied  medi- 
cine, that's  another  matter.  Will  you  guarantee  the  success  of 
your  plan?" 

"Yes." 

"Mind,  I  wash  my  hands  of  it;  I  take  Mr.  Jones  to  wit- 
ness" :  and  he  appealed  to  the  valet. 

"Call  up  the  footman,  and  lift  your  master,"  said  Dalibard; 
and  the  doctor,  glancing  round,  saw  that  a  bath,  filled  some 
seven  or  eight  inches  deep  with  water,  stood  already  prepared 
in  the  room.  Perplexed  and  irresolute,  he  offered  no  obstacle 
to  Dalibard 's  movements.  The  body,  seemingly  lifeless,  was 
placed  in  the  bath ;  and  the  servants,  under  Dalibard's  direc- 
tions, applied  vigorous  and  incessant  friction.  Several  min- 
utes elapsed  before  any  favorable  symptoms  took  place;  at 
length,  Sir  Miles  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  and  the  eyes  moved,  a 
minute  or  two  more,  and  the  teeth  chattered ;  the  blood,  set  in 
motion,  appeared  on  the  surface  of  the  skin :  life  ebbed  back ; 
the  danger  was  past ;  the  dark  foe  driven  from  the  citadel.  Sir 
Miles  spoke  audibly,  though  incoherently,  as  he  was  taken 
back  to  his  bed,  warmly  covered  up,  the  lights  removed,  noise 
forbidden,  and  Dalibard  and  the  doctor  remained  in  silence  by 
the  bedside. 

"Rich  man,"  thought  Dalibard,  "thine  hour  is  not  yet 
come;  thy  wealth  must  not  pass  to  the  boy  Mainwaring. " 

Sir  Miles's  recovery  under  the  care  of  Dalibard,  who  now 
had  his  own  way,  was  as  rapid  and  complete  as  before.  Lucre- 
tia,  when  she  heard  the  next  morning  of  the  attack,  felt,  we 
dare  not  say,  a  guilty  joy,  but  a  terrible  and  feverish  agitation. 
Sir  Miles  himself,  informed  by  his  valet  of  Dalibard's  wrestle 
with  the  doctor,  felt  a  profound  gratitude,  and  reverent  won- 
der for  the  simple  means  to  which  he  probably  owed  his  restor- 
ation ;  and  he  listened  with  a  docility  which  Dalibard  was  not 
prepared  to  expect,  to  his  learned  secretary's  urgent  admoni- 
tions as  to  the  life  he  must  lead,  if  he  desired  to  live  at  all. 
Convinced,  at  last,  that  wine  and  good  cheer  had  not  block- 


LUCRETIA.  8l 

aded  out  the  enemy,  and  having  to  do,  in  Olivier  Dalibard, 
with  a  very  different  temper  from  the  doctor's,  he  assented 
with  a  tolerable  grace  to  the  trial  of  a  strict  regimen  and  to 
daily  exercise  in  the  open  air.  Dalibard  now  became  con- 
stantly with  him ;  the  increase  of  his  influence  was  as  natural  as 
it  was  apparent.  Lucretia  trembled ;  she  divined  a  danger  in 
his  power,  now  separate  from  her  own,  and  which  threatened 
to  be  independent  of  it.  She  became  abstracted  and  uneasy ; 
jealousy  of  the  Provencal  possessed  her.  She  began  to  meditate 
schemes  for  his  downfall.  At  this  time,  Sir  Miles  received  the 
following  letter  from  Mr.  Fielden : 

"SOUTHAMPTON,  August  20,  1801. 

"DEAR  SIR  MILES:  You  will  remember  that  I  informed 
you  when  I  arrived  at  Southampton,  with  my  dear  young 
charge;  and  Susan  has  twice  written  to  her  sister,  implying  the 
request  which  she  lacked  the  courage,  seeing  that  she  is  timid, 
expressly  to  urge,  that  Miss  Clavering  might  again  be  per- 
mitted to  visit  her.  Miss  Clavering  has  answered,  as  might  be 
expected  from  the  propinquity  of  the  relationship ;  but  she  has 
perhaps  the  same  fears  of  offending  you  that  actuate  her  sis- 
ter. But  now,  since  the  worthy  clergyman  who  had  under- 
taken my  parochial  duties  has  found  the  air  insalubrious,  and 
prays  me  not  to  enforce  the  engagement  by  which  we  had  ex- 
changed our  several  charges  for  the  space  of  a  calendar  year, 
I  am  reluctantly  compelled  to  return  home,  my  dear  wife, 
thank  Heaven,  being  already  restored  to  health,  which  is  an 
unspeakable  mercy;  and  I  am  sure  I  cannot  be  sufficiently 
grateful  to  Providence,  which  has  not  only  provided  me  with  a 
liberal  independence  of  more  than  two  hundred  pounds  a  year, 
but  the  best  of  wives  and  the  most  dutiful  of  children — posses- 
sions that  I  venture  to  call  'the  riches  of  the  heart.'  Now,  I  pray 
you,  my  dear  Sir  Miles,  to  gratify  these  two  deserving  young 
persons,  and  to  suffer  Miss  Lucretia  incontinently  to  visit  her 
sister.  Counting  on  your  consent,  thus  boldly  demanded,  I 
have  already  prepared  an  apartment  for  Miss  Clavering;  and 
Susan  is  busy  in  what,  though  I  do  not  know  much  of  such 
feminine  matters,  the  whole  house  declares  to  be  a  most  beau- 
tiful and  fanciful  toilet  cover,  with  roses  and  forget-me-nots 
cut  out  of  muslin,  and  two  large  silk  tassels,  which  cost  her 
three  shillings  and  fourpence.  I  cannot  conclude,  without 
thanking  you  from  my  heart  for  your  noble  kindness  to  young 
Ardworth.  He  is  so  full  of  ardor  and  spirit,  that  I  remember, 
poor  lad,  when  I  left  him,  as  I  thought,  hard  at  work  on  that 


52  LUCRETIA. 

well-known  problem  of  Euclid,  vulgarly  called  the  Asses' 
Bridge,  I  found  him  describing  a  figure  of  8  on  the  village 
pond,  which  was  only  just  frozen  over!  Poor  lad!  Heaven 
will  take  care  of  him,  I  know,  as  it  does  of  all  who  take  no 
care  of  themselves.  Ah,  Sir  Miles,  if  you  could  but  see 
Susan — such  a  nurse,  too,  in  illness ! 
"I  have  the  honor  to  be,  Sir  Miles, 

"Your  most  humble,  poor  servant  to  command, 

"MATTHEW  FIELDEN." 

Sir  Miles  put  this  letter  in  his  niece's  hand,  and  said  kindly. 
"Why  not  have  gone  to  see  your  sister  before?  I  should  not 
have  been  angry.  Go,  my  child,  as  soon  as  you  like :  to- 
morrow is  Sunday — no  travelling  that  day — but  the  next,  the 
carriage  shall  be  at  your  order." 

Lucretia  hesitated  a  moment.  To  leave  Dalibard  in  sole 
possession  of  the  field,  even  for  a  few  days,  was  a  thought  of 
alarm;  but  what  evil  could  he  do  in  that  time?  And  her 
pulse  beat  quickly !  Main  waring  could  come  to  Southampton ! 
She  could  see  him  again,  after  more  than  six  weeks'  absence ! 
She  had  so  much  to  relate  and  to  hear;  she  fancied  his  last 
letter  had  been  colder  and  shorter ;  she  yearned  to  hear  him 
say  with  his  own  lips,  that  "he  loved  her  still"!  This  idea 
banished  or  prevailed  over  all  others.  She  thanked  her  uncle 
cheerfully  and  gayly,  and  the  journey  was  settled. 

"Be  at  watch  early  on  Monday,"  said  Olivier  to  his  son. 

Monday  came:  the  Baronet  had  ordered  the  carriage  to  be 
at  the  door  at  ten.  A  little  before  eight  Lucretia  stole  out, 
and  took  her  way  to  Guy's  Oak.  Gabriel  had  placed  himself 
in  readiness ;  he  had  climbed  a  tree  at  the  bottom  of  the  park 
(near  the  place  where  hitherto  he  had  lost  sight  of  her) ;  she 
passed  under  it,  on  through  a  dark  grove  of  pollard  oaks. 
When  she  was  at  a  sufficient  distance  the  boy  dropped  from 
his  perch ;  with  the  stealth  of  an  Indian  he  crept  on  her  trace, 
following  from  tree  to  tree,  always  sheltered,  always  watchful ; 
he  saw  her  pause  at  the  dell,  and  look  round;  she  descended 
into  the  hollow;  he  slunk  through  the  fern;  he  gained  the 
marge  of  the  dell,  and  looked  down — she  was  lost  to  his  sight. 
At  length,  to  his  surprise,  he  saw  the  gleam  of  her  robe  emerge 
from  the  hollow  of  a  tree — her  head  stooped  as  she  came 
through  the  aperture ;  he  had  time  to  shrink  back  amongst  the 
fern;  she  passed  on  hurriedly,  the  same  way  she  had  taken, 
back  to  the  house;  then  into  the  dell  crept  the  boy.  Guy's 
Oak,  vast  and  venerable,  with  gnarled  green  boughs  below,  and 


LUCRETIA.  83 

sere  branches  above,  that  told  that  its  day  of  fall  was  decreed 
at  last,  rose  high  from  the  abyss  of  the  hollow — high  and  far- 
seen  amidst  the  trees  that  stood  on  the  vantage-ground  above, 
even  as  a  great  name  soars  the  loftier  when  it  springs  from  the 
grave.  A  dark  and  irregular  fissure  gave  entrance  to  the  heart 
of  the  oak ;  the  boy  glided  in  and  looked  round ;  he  saw  noth- 
ing, yet  something  there  must  be.  The  rays  of  the  early  sun 
did  not  penetrate  into  the  hollow;  it  was  as  dim  as  a  cave. 
He  felt  slowly  in  every  crevice,  and  a  startled  moth  or  two 
flew  out.  It  was  not  for  moths  that  the  girl  had  come  to 
Guy's  Oak!  He  drew  back,  at  last,  in  despair;  as  he  did  so, 
he  heard  a  low,  sound  close  at  hand, — a  low,  murmuring,  angry 
sound,  like  a  hiss — he  looked  round,  and  through  the  dark, 
two  burning  eyes  fixed  his  own — he  had  startled  a  snake  from 
its  bed.  He  drew  out  in  time,  as  the  reptile  sprang;  but  now 
his  task,  search,  and  object  were  forgotten.  With  the  versa- 
tility of  a  child,  his  thoughts  were  all  on  the  enemy  he  had 
provoked.  That  zest  of  prey  which  is  inherent  in  man's 
breast,  which  makes  him  love  the  sport  and  the  chase,  and 
maddens  boyhood  and  age  with  the  passion  for  slaughter,  leapt 
up  within  him ;  anything  of  danger,  and  contest,  and  excite- 
ment gave  Gabriel  Varney  a  strange  fever  of  pleasure.  He 
sprang  up  the  sides  of  the  dell,  climbed  the  park  pales  on 
which  it  bordered,  was  in  the  wood  where  the  young  shoots 
rose  green  and  strong  from  the  underwood ;  to  cut  a  staff  for 
the  strife,  to  descend  again  into  the  dell,  creep  again  through 
the  fissure,  look  round  for  those  vengeful  eyes,  was  quick  done 
as  the  joyous  play  of  the  impulse.  The  poor  snake  had  slid 
down  in  content  and  fancied  security;  its  young,  perhaps, 
were  not  far  off ;  its  wrath  had  been  the  instinct  Nature  gives 
to  the  mother.  It  hath  done  thee  no  harm  yet,  boy ;  leave  it  in 
peace!  The  young  hunter  had  no  ear  to  such  whisper  of  pru- 
dence or  mercy.  Dim  and  blind  in  the  fissure,  he  struck  the 
ground  and  the  tree  with  his  stick,  shouted  out,  bade  the  eyes 
gleam,  and  defied  them;  whether  or  not  the  reptile  had  spent 
its  ire  in  the  first  fruitless  spring,  and  this  unlooked-for  return 
of  the  intruder  rather  daunted  than  exasperated,  we  leave  those 
better  versed  in  natural  history  to  conjecture ;  but,  instead  of 
obeying  the  challenge  and  courting  the  contest,  it  glided  by 
the  sides  of  the  oak,  close  to  the  very  feet  of  its  foe,  and, 
emerging  into  the  light,  dragged  its  gray  coils  through  the 
grass;  but  its  hiss  still  betrayed  it.  Gabriel  sprang  through 
the  fissure,  and  struck  at  the  craven,  insulting  it  with  a  laugh  of 
scorn  as  he  struck,  Suddenly  it  halted,  suddenly  reared  its 


84  LUCRETIA. 

crest ;  the  throat  swelled  with  venom,  the  tongue  darted  out, 
and  again,  green  as  emeralds,  glared  the  spite  of  its  eyes.  No 
fear  felt  Gabriel  Varney ;  his  arm  was  averted ;  he  gazed 
spelled  and  admiringly,  with  the  eye  of  an  artist.  Had  he  had 
pencil  and  tablet  at  that  moment,  he  would  have  dropped  his 
weapon  for  the  sketch,  though  the  snake  had  been  as  deadly  as 
the  vipers  of  Sumatra.  The  sight  sunk  into  his  memory,  to  be 
reproduced  often  by  the  wild,  morbid  fancies  of  his  hand. 
Scarce  a  moment,  however,  had  he  for  the  gaze;  the  reptile 
sprang,  and  fell,  baffled  and  bruised  by  the  involuntary  blow  of 
its  enemy.  As  it  writhed  on  the  grass,  how  its  colors  came 
out;  how  graceful  were  the  movements  of  its  pain!  And  still 
the  boy  gazed,  till  the  eye  was  sated,  and  the  cruelty  returned. 
A  blow — a  second — a  third — all  the  beauty  is  gone;  shapeless, 
and  clotted  with  gore,  that  elegant  head ;  mangled  and  dissevered 
the  airy  spires  of  that  delicate  shape,  which  had  glanced  in  its 
circling  involutions,  free  and  winding,  as  a  poet's  thoughts 
through  his  verse.  The  boy  trampled  the  quivering  relics  into 
the  sod,  with  a  fierce  animal  joy  of  conquest,  and  turned  once 
more  towards  the  hollow,  for  a  last,  almost  hopeless,  survey. 
Lo,  his  object  was  found.  In  his  search  for  the  snake  either 
his  staff,  or  his  foot,  had  disturbed  a  layer  of  moss  in  the  cor- 
ner; the  faint  ray,  ere  he  entered  the  hollow,  gleamed  upon 
something  white.  He  emerged  from  the  cavity  with  a  letter 
in  his  hand ;  he  read  the  address,  thrust  it  into  his  bosom, 
and  as  stealthily,  but  more  rapidly,  than  he  had  come,  took 
his  way  to  his  father. 

CHAPTER  V. 

HOUSEHOLD  TREASON. 

THE  Provencal  took  the  letter  from  his  son's  hand,  and 
looked  at  him  with  an  approbation  half-complacent,  half- 
ironical.  "Monfils!"  said  he,  patting  the  boy's  head  gently; 
"why  should  we  not  be  friends?  We  want  each  other;  we 
have  the  strong  world  to  fight  against." 

"Not  if  you  are  master  of  this  place." 

"Well  answered;  no;  then  we  shall  have  the  strong  world 
on  our  side,  and  shall  have  only  rogues  and  the  poor  to  make 
war  on."  Then, -with  a  quiet  gesture,  he  dismissed  his  son, 
and  gazed  slowly  on  the  letter.  His  pulse,  which  was  usually 
low,  quickened,  and  his  lips  were  tightly  compressed ;  he 
shrank  from  the  contents  with  a  jealous  pang;  as  a  light  quiv- 
ers strugglingly  in  a  noxious  vault,  love,  descended  into  that 


LUCRET1A.  85 

hideous  breast,  gleamed  upon  dreary  horrors,  and  warred  with 
the  noxious  atmosphere ;  but  it  shone  still.  To  this  dangerous 
man,  every  art  that  gives  power  to  the  household  traitor  was 
familiar ;  he  had  no  fear  that  the  violated  seal  should  betray 
the  fraud  which  gave  the  contents  to  the  eye  that,  at  length, 
steadily  fell  upon  the  following  lines : 

"DEAREST,  AND  EVER  DEAREST: 

"Where  art  thou  at  this  moment?  What  are  thy  thoughts? 
Are  they  upon  me?  I  write  this  at  the  dead  of  night.  I  pic- 
ture you  to  myself  as  my  hand  glides  over  the  paper.  I  think 
I  see  you,  as  you  look  on  these  words,  and  envy  them  the  gaze 
of  those  dark  eyes.  Press  your  lips  to  the  paper.  Do  you  feel 
the  kiss  that  I  leave  there?  Well,  well!  It  will  not  be  for  long 
now  that  we  shall  be  divided.  Oh,  what  joy,  when  I  think 
that  I  am  about  to  see  you.  Two  days  more,  at  most  three, 
and  we  shall  meet — shall  we  not?  I  am  going  to  see  my  sister. 
I  subjoin  my  address.  Come,  come,  come ;  I  thirst  to  see  you 
once  more.  And  I  did  well  to  say,  'Wait,  and  be  patient' ; 
we  shall  not  wait  long :  before  the  year  is  out,  I  shall  be  free. 
My  uncle  has  had  another  and  more  deadly  attack.  I  see  its 
trace  in  his  face,  in  his  step,  in  his  whole  form  and  bearing. 
The  only  obstacle  between  us  is  fading  away.  Can  I  grieve 
when  I  think  it?  Grieve  when  life  with  you  spreads  smiling 
beyond  the  old  man's  grave?  And  why  should  age,  that  has 
survived  all  passion,  stand  with  its  chilling  frown,  and  the  mis- 
erable prejudices  the  world  has  not  conquered,  but  strength- 
ened into  a  creed — why  should  age  stand  between  youth  and 
youth?  I  feel  your  mild  eyes  rebuke  me  as  I  write.  But 
chide  me  not  that  on  earth  I  see  only  youj  And  it  will  be 
mine  to  give  you  wealth  and  rank!  Mine  to  see  the  homage  of 
my  own  heart  reflected  from  the  crowd  who  bow  not  to  the 
statue,  but  the  pedestal.  Oh,  how  I  shall  enjoy  your  revenge 
upon  the  proud !  For  I  have  drawn  no  pastoral  scenes  in  the 
picture  of  the  future.  No;  I  see  you  leading  senates,  and 
duping  fools.  I  shall  b£  by  your  side,  your  partner,  step  after 
step,  as  you  mount  the  height,  for  I  am  ambitious,  you  know, 
William;  and  not  less,  because  I  love!  Rather  ten  thousand 
times  more  so.  I  would  not  have  you  born  great  and  noble, 
for  what  then  could  we  look  to?  What  use  all  my  schemes, 
and  my  plans,  and  aspirings?  Fortune,  accident,  would  have 
taken  from  us  the  great  zest  of  life,  which  is  desire. 

"When  I  see  you,  I  shall  tell  you  that  I  have  some  fears  of 
Olivier  Dalibard:  he  has  evidently  some  wily  project  in  view. 


86  LUCRETIA. 

He,  who  never  interfered  before  with  the  blundering  physician, 
now  thrusts  him  aside,  affects  to  have  saved  the  old  man,  at- 
tends him  always.  Dares  he  think  to  win  an  influence,  to  turn 
against  me?  Against  us?  Happily,  when  I  shall  come  back, 
my  uncle  will  probably  be  restored  to  the  false  strength  which 
deceives  him ;  he  will  have  less  need  of  Dalibard,  and  then — 
then  let  the  Frenchman  beware !  I  have  already  a  plot  to  turn 
his  schemes  to  his  own  banishment.  Come  to  Southampton,, 
then,  as  soon  as  you  can — perhaps  the  day  you  receive  this — 
on  Wednesday,  at  farthest.  Your  last  letter  implies  blame  of 
my  policy  with  respect  to  Vernon.  Again  I  say,  it  is  necessary 
to  amuse  my  uncle  to  the  last.  Before  Vernon  can  advance  a 
claim,  there  will  be  weeping  at  Laughton.  I  shall  weep,  too, 
perhaps ;  but  there  will  be  joy  in  those  tears,  as  well  as  sorrow : 
for  then,  when  I  can  clasp  thy  hand  I  can  murmur,  'It  is  mine 
at  last,  and  forever ! ' 

"Adieu!  No,  not  adieu — to  our  meeting,  my  lover,  my  be- 
loved! Thy  LUCRETIA!" 

An  hour  after  Miss  Clavering  had  departed  on  her  visit, 
Dalibard  returned  the  letter  to  his  son,  the  seal  seemingly  un- 
broken, and  bade  him  replace  it  in  the  hollow  of  the  tree,  but 
sufficiently  in  sight  to  betray  itself  to  the  first  that  entered. 
He  then  communicated  the  plan  he  had  formed  for  its  detec- 
tion— a  plan  which  would  prevent  Lucretia  ever  suspecting 
the  agency  of  his  son  or  himself;  and  this  done,  he  joined 
Sir  Miles  in  the  gallery.  Hitherto,  in  addition  to  his  other 
apprehensions  in  revealing  to  the  Baronet  Lucretia' s  clandestine 
intimacy  with  Mainwaring,  Dalibard  had  shrunk  from  the 
thought  that  the  disclosure  would  lose  her  the  heritage  which 
had  first  tempted  his  avarice  or  ambition ;  but  now  his  jealous 
and  his  vindictive  passions  were  aroused,  and  his  whole  plan 
of  strategy  was  changed.  He  must  crush  Lucretia,  or  she  would 
crush  him,  as  her  threats  declared.  To  ruin  her  in  Sir  Miles's 
eyes,  to  expel  her  from  his  house,  might  not,  after  all,  weaken 
his  own  position,  even  with  regard  to  power  over  herself.  If 
he  remained  firmly  established  at  Laughton,  he  could  affect 
intercession,  he  could  delay  at  least,  any  precipitate  union  with 
Mainwaring,  by  practising  on  the  ambition  which  he  still  saw 
at  work  beneath  her  love ;  he  might  become  a  necessary  ally, 
and  then, — why  then — his  ironical  smile  glanced  across  his  lips. 
But  beyond  this  his  quick  eye  saw  fair  prospects  to  self-interest : 
Lucretia  banished ;  the  heritage  not  hers ;  the  will  to  be  altered ; 
Dalibard  esteemed  indispensable  to  the  life  of  the  Baronet  i 


LUCRETIA.  87 

Come,  there  was  hope  here,  not  for  the  heritage,  indeed,  but  at 
least  for  a  munificent  bequest. 

At  noon  some  visitors,  bringing  strangers  from  London, 
whom  Sir  Miles  had  invited  to  see  the  house  (which  was  one  of 
the  lions  of  the  neighborhood,  though  not  professedly  a  show 
place),  were  expected.  Aware  of  this,  Dalibard  prayed  the 
Baronet  to  rest  quiet  till  his  company  arrived,  and  then  he  said, 
carelessly : 

"It  will  be  a  healthful  diversion  to  your  spirits  to  accompany 
them  a  little  in  the  park  ;  you  can  go  in  your  garden  chair ;  you 
will  have  new  companions  to  talk  with  by  the  way;  and  it  is 
always  warm  and  sunny  at  the  slope  of  the  hill,  towards  the 
bottom  of  the  park." 

Sir  Miles  assented  cheerfully :  the  guests  came ;  strolled  over 
the  house,  admired  the  pictures  and  the  armor,  and  the  hall 
and  the  staircase ;  paid  due  respect  to  the  substantial  old-fash- 
ioned luncheon  ;  and  then,  refreshed,  and  in  great  good  humor, 
acquiesced  in  Sir  Miles's  proposition  to  saunter  through  the 
park. 

The  poor  Baronet  was  more  lively  than  usual.  The  younger 
people  clustered  gayly  round  his  chair  (which  was  wheeled  by 
his  valet),  smiling  at  his  jests,  and  charmed  with  his  courteous 
high  breeding.  A  little  in  the  rear  walked  Gabriel,  paying 
special  attention  to  the  prettiest  and  merriest  girl  of  the  com- 
pany, who  was  a  great  favorite  with  Sir  Miles,  perhaps  fc>r 
those  reasons. 

"What  a  delightful  old  gentleman!"  said  the  young  lady. 
"How  I  envy  Miss  Clavering  such  an  uncle!" 

"Ah,  but  you  are  a  little  out  of  favor  to-day,  I  can  tell  you," 
said  Gabriel  laughingly;  "you  were  close  by  Sir  Miles  when 
he  went  through  the  picture-gallery,  and  you  never  asked  him 
the  history  of  the  old  knight  in  the  buff  doublet  and  blue  sash." 

"Dear  me  what  of  that?" 

"Why,  that  was  brave  Colonel  Guy  St.  John,  the  cavalier; 
the  pride  and  boast  of  Sir  Miles:  you  know  his  weakness.  He 
looked  so  displeased  when  you  said,  'What  a  droll  looking 
figure!'  I  was  on  thorns  for  you !" 

"What  a  pity!  I  would  not  offend  dear  Sir  Miles  for  the 
world." 

"Well,  it's  easy  to  make  it  up  with  him.  Go,  and  tell  him 
that  he  must  take  you  to  see  Guy's  Oak,  in  the  dell,  that  you 
have  heard  so  much  about  it ;  and  when  you  get  him  on  his 
hobby,  it  is  hard  if  you  can't  make  your  peace." 

"Oh,  I'll  certainly  do  it,  Master  Varney;"  and  the  young 


88  LUCRET1A. 

lady  lost  no  time  in  obeying  the  hint.  Gabriel  had  set  other 
tongues  on  the  same  cry,  so  that  there  was  a  general  exclama- 
tion, when  the  girl  named  the  subject:  "Oh,  Guy's  Oak,  by 
all  means!" 

Much  pleased  with  the  enthusiasm  this  memorial  of  his  pet 
ancestor  produced,  Sir  Miles  led  the  way  to  the  dell,  and,  paus- 
ing as  he  reached  the  verge,  said: 

"I  fear  I  cannot  do  you  the  honors:  it  is  too  steep  for  my 
chair  to  descend  safely." 

Gabriel  whispered  the  fair  companion  whose  side  he  still 
kept  to. 

"Now,  my  dear  Sir  Miles,"  cried  the  girl,  "I  positively  wont 
stir   without  you;   I   am  sure  we  could  get   down   the   chair 
without   a  jolt.     Look  there,  how  nicely  the   ground  slopes! 
Jane,  Lucy,  my  dears,  let  us  take  charge  of  Sir  Miles.     Now 
then." 

The  gallant  old  gentleman  would  have  marched  to  the  breach 
in  such  guidance :  he  kissed  the  fair  hands  that  lay  so  tempt- 
ingly on  his  chair,  and  then  rising  with  some  difficulty,  said: 

"No,  my  dears,  you  have  made  me  so  young  again,  that  I 
think  I  can  walk  down  the  steep  with  the  best  of  you." 

So,  leaning  partly  on  his  valet,  and  by  the  help  of  the  hands 
extended  to  him,  step  after  step,  Sir  Miles,  with  well-disguised 
effort,  reached  the  huge  roots  of  the  oak. 

"The  hollow  then  was  much  smaller,"  said  he,  "so  he  was 
not  so  easily  detected  as  a  man  would  be  now :  the  damned 
crop-ears — I  beg  pardon,  my  dears — the  rascally  rebels,  poked 
their  swords  through  the  fissure,  and  two  went,  one  through  his 
jerkin,  one  through  his  arm ;  but  he  took  care  not  to  swear  at 
the  liberty,  and  they  went  away,  not  suspecting  him." 

While  thus  speaking,  the  young  paople  were  already  playfully 
struggling  which  should  first  enter  the  oak.  Two  got  prece- 
dence, and  went  in  and  out,  one  after  the  other.  Gabriel 
breathed  hard:  "The  blind  owlets!"  thought  he;  "And  I 
put  the  letter  where  a  mole  would  have  seen  it!" 

"You  know  the  spell  when  you  enter  an  oak  tree  where  the 
fairies  have  been,"  he  whispered,  to  the  fair  object  of  his  notice. 
"You  must  turn  round  three  times,  look  carefully  on  the  ground, 
and  you  will  see  the  face  you  love  best.  If  I  was  but  a  little 
older,  how  I  should  pray! — " 

"Nonsense!"  said  the  girl,  blushing,  as  she  now  slid  through 
the  crowd,  and  went  timidly  in ;  presently  she  uttered  a  little 
exclamation. 

The  gallant  Sir  Miles  stooped  down  to  see  what  was  the 


LUCRETIA.  89 

matter,  and  offering  his  hand  as  she  came  out,  was  startled  to 
see  her  holding  a  letter. 

"Only  think  what  I  have  found!"  said  the  girl.  "What  a 
strange  place  for  a  post-office !  Bless  me !  It  is  directed  to 
Mr.  Mainwaring!" 

"Mr.  Mainwaring!"  cried  three  or  four  voices;  but  the 
Baronet's  was  mute.  His  eye  recognized  Lucretia's  hand ;  his 
tongue  clove  to  the  roof  of  his  mouth ;  the  blood  surged,  like  a 
sea,  in  his  temples ;  his  face  became  purple.  Suddenly  Gabriel, 
peeping  over  the  girl's  shoulder,  snatched  away  the  letter. 

"It  is  my  letter — it  is  mine!  What  a  shame  in  Mainwaring 
not  to  have  come  for  it  as  he  promised ! " 

Sir  Miles  looked  round,  and  breathed  more  freely. 

"Yours,  Master  Varney !"  said  the  young  lady,  astonished. 
"What  can  make  your  letters  to  Mr.  Mainwaring  such  a 
secret?" 

"Oh!  You'll  laugh  at  me;  but — but — I  wrote  a  poem  on 
Guy's  Oak,  and  Mr.  Mainwaring  promised  to  get  it  into  the 
County  Paper  for  me ;  and  as  he  was  to  pass  close  by  the  park 

pales,  through  the  wood  yonder,  on  his  way  to  D last 

Saturday,  we  agreed  that  I  should  leave  it  here ;  but  he  has 
forgotten  his  promise,  I  see. ' ' 

Sir  Miles  grasped  the  boy's  arm  with  a  convulsive  pressure 
of  gratitude.  There  was  a  general  cry  for  Gabriel  to  read  his 
poem  on  the  spot ;  but  the  boy  looked  sheepish,  and  hung 
down  his  head,  and  seemed  rather  more  disposed  to  cry  than 
to  recite.  Sir  Miles,  with  an  effort  at  simulation  that  all  his 
long  practice  of  the  world  never  could  have  nerved  him  to,  un- 
excited  by  a  motive  less  strong  than  the  honor  of  his  blood  and 
house,  came  to  the  relief  of  the  young  wit  that  had  just  come 
to  his  own. 

"Nay,"  he  said,  almost  calmly,  "I  know  our  young  poet  is 
too  shy  to  oblige  you.  I  will  take  charge  of  your  verses,  Mas- 
ter Gabriel";  and,  with  a  grave  air  of  command,  he  took  the 
letter  from  the  boy,  and  placed  it  in  his  pocket. 

The  return  to  the  house  was  less  gay  than  the  visit  to  the 
oak.  The  Baronet  himself  made  a  feverish  effort  to  appear 
blithe  and  debonnair  as  before ;  but  it  was  not  successful.  For- 
tunately the  carriages  were  all  at  the  door  as  they  reached  the 
house,  and,  luncheon  being  over,  nothing  delayed  the  parting 
compliments  of  the  guests.  As  the  last  carriage  drove  away, 
Sir  Miles  beckoned  to  Gabriel,  and  bade  him  follow  him  into 
his  room. 

When  there,  he  dismissed  his  valet,  and  said: 


90  LUCRETIA. 

"You  know,  then,  who  wrote  this  letter.  Have  you  been 
in  the  secret  of  the  correspondence?  Speak  the  truth,  my  dear 
boy;  it  shall  cost  you  nothing." 

'•Oh,  Sir  Miles!"  cried  Gabriel  earnestly,  "I  know  nothing 
whatever  beyond  this — that  I  saw  the  hand  of  my  dear,  kind 
Miss  Lucretia;  that  I  felt,  I  hardly  knew  why,  that  both  you 
and  she  would  not  have  those  people  discover  it,  which  they 
would  if  the  letter  had  been  circulated  from  one  to  the  other, 
for  some  one  would  have  known  the  hand  as  well  as  myself, 
and  therefore  I  spoke,  without  thinking,  the  first  thing  that 
came  into  my  head." 

"You — you  have  obliged  me  and  my  niece,  sir,"  said  the 
Baronet  tremulously ;  and  then  with  a  forced  and  sickly  smile, 
he  added:  "Some  foolish  vagary  of  Lucretia's,  I  suppose;  I 
must  scold  her  for  it.  Say  nothing  about  it,  however,  to  any 
one." 

"Oh  no,  sir!" 

"Good-by,  my  dear  Gabriel!" 

"And  that  boy  saved  the  honor  of  my  niece's  name — my 
mother's  grandchild!  Oh,  God,  this  is  bitter!  In  my  old 
age,  too!" 

He  bowed  his  head  over  his  hands,  and  tears  forced  them- 
selves through  his  fingers.  He  was  long  before  he  had  courage 
to  read  the  letter,  though  he  little  foreboded  all  the  shock  that 
it  would  give  him.  It  was  the  first  lettter,  not  destined  to 
himself,  of  which  he  had  ever  broken  the  seal.  Even  that  rec- 
ollection made  the  honorable  old  man  pause;  but  his  duty  was 
plain  and  evident,  as  head  of  the  house,  and  guardian  to  his 
niece.  Thrice  he  wiped  his  spectacles;  still  they  were  dim, 
still  the  tears  would  come.  He  rose  tremblingly,  walked  to  the 
window,  and  saw  the  stately  deer  grouped  in  the  distance,  saw 
the  church  spire,  th*t  rose  above  the  burial-vault  of  his  ances- 
tors, and  his  heart  sunk  deeper  and  deeper,  as  he  muttered  : 
"Vain  pride!  pride!"  Then  he  crept  to  the  door,  and  locked 
it,  and  at  last,  seating  himself  firmly,  as  a  wounded  man  to  some 
terrible  operation,  he  read  the  letter. 

Heaven  support  thee,  old  man  .'  Thou  hast  to  pass  through 
the  bitterest  trial  which  honor  and  affection  can  undergo — 
household  treason !  When  the  wife  lifts  high  the  blushless  front, 
and  brazens  out  her  guilt;  when  the  child,  with  loud  voice, 
throws  off  all  control,  and  makes  boast  of  disobedience,  man  re- 
volts at  the  audacity ;  his  spirit  arms  against  his  wrong  its  face, 
at  least,  is  bare;  the  blow,  if  sacrilegious,  is  direct.  But  when 
mild  v.'ords  and  soft  kisses  conceal  the  worst  foe  Fate  can  arm ; 


LUCRETIA.  91 

ivhen  amidst  the  confidence  of  the  heart  starts  up  the  form  of 
Perfidy;  when  out  from  the  reptile  swells  the  fiend  in  its  terror; 
when  the  breast  on  which  man  leaned  for  comfort  has  taken 
counsel  to  deceive  him;  when  he  learns  that,  day  after  day, 
the  life  entwined  with  his  own  has  been  a  lie  and  a  stage-mime, 
he  feels  not  the  softness  of  grief,  nor  the  absorption  of  rage ;  it 
is  mightier  than  grief,  and  more  withering  than  rage ;  it  is  a 
horror  that  appals.  The  heart  does  not  bleed ;  the  tears  do 
not  flow,  as  in  woes  to  which  humanity  is  commonly  subjected; 
it  is  as  if  something  that  violates  the  course  of  nature  had  taken 
place ;  something  monstrous  and  out  of  all  thought  and  fore- 
warning; for  the  domestic  traitor  is  a  being  apart  from  the  orbit 
of  a  criminals ;  the  felon  has  no  fear  of  his  innocent  children ; 
with  a  price  on  his  head,  he  lays  it  in  safety  on  the  bosom 
of  his  wife.  In  his  home,  the  ablest  man,  the  most  subtle  and 
suspecting,  can  be  as  much  a  dupe  as  the  simplest.  Were  it 
not  so  as  the  rule,  and  the  exceptions  most  rare,  this  world 
were  the  riot  of  a  hell ! 

And  therefore  it  is  that  to  the  household  perfidy,  in  all  lands, 
in  all  ages,  God's  curse  seems  to  cleave,  and  to  God's  curse 
man  abandons  it:  he  does  not  honor  it  by  hate,  still  less  will 
he  lighten  and  share  the  guilt  by  descending  to  revenge.  He 
turns  aside  with  a  sickness  and  loathing,  and  leaves  Nature  to 
purify  from  the  earth  the  ghastly  phenomenon  she  abhors. 

Old  man,  that  she  wilfully  deceived  thee;  that  she  abused 
thy  belief,  and  denied  to  thy  question,  and  profaned  maiden- 
hood to  stealth — all  this  might  have  galled  thee,  but  to  these 
wrongs  old  men  are  subjected ;  they  give  mirth  to  our  farces ; 
maid  and  lover  are  privileged  impostors.  But  to  have  counted 
the  sands  in  thine  hour-glass;  to  have  sate  by  thy  side,  marvel- 
ling when  the  worms  should  have  thee ;  and  looked  smiling  on 
thy  face  for  the  signs  of  the  death-writ — die  quick,  old  man, 
the  executioner  hungers  for  the  fee! 

There  were  no  tears  in  those  eyes  when  they  came  to  the 
close ;  the  letter  fell  noiselessly  to  the  floor,  and  the  head  sank 
on  the  breast,  and  the  hands  drooped  upon  the  poor  crippled 
limbs,  whose  crawl  in  the  sunshine  hard  youth  had  grudged. 
He  felt  humbled,  stunned,  crushed ;  the  pride  was  clean  gone 
from  him ;  the  cruel  words  struck  home — worse  than  a  cipher, 
did  he  then  but  cumber  the  earth?  At  that  moment,  old  Ponto, 
the  setter,  shook  himself,  looked  up,  and  laid  his  head  in  his  mas- 
ter's lap ;  and  Dash,  jealous,  rose  also,  and  sprang,  not  actively — 
for  Dash  was  old  too, — upon  his  knees,  and  licked  the  numbed 
drooping  hands.  Now,  people  praise  the  fidelity  of  dogs  till 


92  LUCRKTIA. 

the  theme  is  worn  out,  but  nobody  knows  what  a  dog  is,  unless 
he  has  been  deceived  by  men;  then,  that  honest  face;  then, 
that  sincere  caress ;  then,  that  coaxing  whine  that  never  lied ! 
Well  ihen, — what  then?  A  dog  is  long-lived  if  he  live  to  ten 
years:  small  career  this  to  truth  and  friendship!  Now,  when 
Sir  Miles  felt  that  he  was  not  deserted,  and  his  look  met  those 
four  fond  eyes,  fixed  with  that  strange  wistfulness  which,  in 
our  hours  of  trouble,  the  eyes  of  a  dog  sympathizingly  assume, 
an  odd  thought  for  a  sensible  man  passed  into  him,  showing, 
more  than  pages  of  sombre  elegy,  how  deep  was  the  sudden 
misanthropy  that  blackened  the  world  around.  "When  I  am 
dead,"  ran  that  thought,  "is  there  one  human  being  whom  I 
can  trust  to  take  charge  of  the  old  man's  dogs?" 
So — let  the  scene  close! 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  WILL. 

THE  next  day,  or  rather  the  next  evening,  Sir  Miles  St.  John 
was  seated  before  his  unshared  chicken ;  seated  alone,  and 
vaguely  surprised  at  himself,  in  a  large,  comfortable  room  in  his 
old  hotel,  Hanover  Square;  yes,  he  had  escaped.  Hast  thou, 
O  Reader,  tasted  the  luxury  of  escape  from  a  home  where  the 
charm  is  broken,  where  Distrust  looks  askant  from  the  Lares ! 
In  vain  had  Dalibard  remonstrated,  conjured  up  dangers,  and 
asked  at  least  to  accompany  him.  Excepting  his  dogs  and  his 
old  valet,  who  was  too  like  a  dog  in  his  fond  fidelity  to  rank 
amongst  bipeds,  Sir  Miles  did  not  wish  to  have  about  him  a 
single  face  familiar  at  Laughto" — Dalibard  especially.  Lucre- 
tia's  letter  had  hinted  at  plans  and  designs  in  Dalibard.  It 
might  be  unjust,  it  might  be  ungrateful,  but  he  grew  sick  at 
the  thought  that  he  was  the  centre  stone  of  stratagems  and  plots. 
The  smooth  face  of  the  Provencal  took  a  wily  expression  in  his 
eyes;  nay,  he  thought  his  very  footmen  watched  his  steps  as  if 
to  count  how  long  before  they  followed  his  bier!  So,  break- 
ing from  all  roughly,  with  a  shake  of  his  head,  and  a  laconic  as- 
sertion of  business  in  London,  he  got  into  his  carriage — his 
own  old  bachelor's  lumbering  travelling  carriage — and  bade 
the  post-boys  drive  fast,  fast.  Then,  when  he  felt  alone — quite 
alone — and  the  gates  of  the  lodge  swung  behind  him,  he  rubbed 
his  hands  with  a  schoolboy's  glee,  and  chuckled  loud,  as  if  he 
enjoyed  not  only  the  sense  but  the  fun  of  his  safety;  as  if  he 
had  done  something  prodigiously  cunning  and  clever. 


LUCRETIA.  93 

So  when  he  saw  himself  snug  in  his'  old  well-remembered 
hotel,  in  the  same  room  as  of  yore,  when  returned,  brisk  and 
gay,  from  the  breezes  of  Weymouth,  or  the  brouillards  of  Paris, 
he  thought  he  shook  hands  again  with  his  youth.  Age  and 
lameness,  apoplexy  and  treason,  all  were  forgotten  for  the  mo- 
ment. And  when,  as  the  excitement  died,  those  grim  spectres 
came  back  again  to  his  thoughts,  they  found  their  victim  braced 
and  prepared,  standing  erect  on  that  hearth,  for  whose  hospitality 
he  paid  his  guinea  a  day,  his  front  proud  and  defying.  He 
felt  yet  that  he  had  fortune  and  power,  that  a  movement  of  his 
hand  could  raise  and  strike  down ;  that,  at  the  verge  of  the 
tomb,  he  was  armed,  to  punish  or  reward,  with  the  balance  and 
the  sword.  Tripped  in  the  smug  waiter,  and  announced  "Mr. 
Parchmount." 

"Set  a  chair,  and  show  him  in." 

The  lawyer  entered. 

"My  dear  Sir  Miles,  this  is  indeed  a  surprise.  What  has 
brought  you  to  town?" 

"The  common  whim  of  the  old,  sir.     I  would  alter  my  will." 

Three  days  did  lawyer  and  client  devote  to  the  task,  for  Sir 
Miles  was  minute,  and  Mr.  Parchmount  was  precise;  and  little 
difficulties  arose,  and  changes  in  the  first  outline  were  made; 
and  Sir  Miles,  from  the  very  depth  of  his  disgust,  desired  not 
to  act  only  from  passion.  In  that  last  deed  of  his  life,  the  old 
man  was  sublime.  He  sought  to  rise  out  of  the  mortal,  fix  his 
eyes  on  the  Great  Judge,  weigh  circumstances  and  excuses, 
and  keep  justice  even  and  serene. 

Meanwhile,  unconscious  of  the  train  laid  afar,  Lucretia  re- 
posed on  the  mine ;  reposed,  indeed,  is  not  the  word,  for  she 
was  agitated  and  restless,  that  Mainwaring  had  not  obeyed  her 
summons.  She  wrote  to  him  again  from  Southampton  the 
third  day  of  her  arrival ;  but  before  his  answer  came,  she  re- 
ceived this  short  epistle  from  London : 

"Mr.  Parchmount  presents  his  compliments  to  Miss  Claver- 
ing,  and,  by  desire  of  Sir  Miles  St.  John,  requests  her  not  to 
return  to  Laughton.  Miss  Clavering  will  hear  further  in  a  few 
days,  when  Sir  Miles  has  concluded  the  business  that  has 
brought  him  to  London." 

This  letter,  if  it  excited  much  curiosity,  did  not  produce 
alarm.  It  was  natural  that  Sir  Miles  should  be  busy  in  wind- 
ing up  his  affairs;  his  journey  to  London  for  that  purpose  was 
no  ill  omen  to  her  prospects,  and  her  thoughts  flew  back  to  the 
one  subject  that  tyrannized  over  them.  Main  waring' s  reply, 
which  came  two  days  afterwards,  disquieted  her  much  more. 


94  LUCRETIA. 

He  had  not  found  the  letter  she  had  left  for  him  in  the  tree. 
He  was  full  of  apprehensions;  he  condemned  the  imprudence 
of  calling  on  her  at  Mr.  Fielden's;  he  begged  her  to  renounce 
the  idea  of  such  a  risk.  He  would  return  again  to  Guy's  Oak, 
and  search  more  narrowly — had  she  changed  the  spot  where 
the  former  letters  were  placed?  Yet  now,  not  even  the  non- 
receipt  of  her  letter,  which  she  ascribed  to  the  care  with  which 
she  had  concealed  it  amidst  the  dry  leaves  and  moss,  disturbed 
her  so  much  as  the  evident  constraint  with  which  Mainwaring 
wrote;  the  cautious  and  lukewarm  remonstrance  which  ans- 
wered her  passionate  appeal.  It  may  be  that  her  very  doubts, 
at  times,  of  Mainwaring' s  affection  had  increased  the  ardor  of 
her  own  attachment ;  for  in  some  natures,  the  excitement  of 
fear  deepens  love  more  than  the  calmness  of  trust.  Now  with 
the  doubt  for  the  first  time  flashed  the  resentment,  and  her 
answer  to  Mainwaring  was  vehement  and  imperious.  But  the 
next  day  came  a  messenger  express  from  London,  with  a  letter 
from  Mr.  Parchmount,  that  arrested  for  the  moment  even  the 
fierce  current  of  love. 

When  the  task  had  been  completed ;  the  will  signed,  sealed, 
and  delivered, — the  old  man  had  felt  a  load  lifted  from  his 
heart.  Three  or  four  of  his  old  friends,  ban  vivants  like  himself, 
had  seen  his  arrival  duly  proclaimed  in  the  newspapers,  and 
had  hastened  to  welcome  him.  Warmed  by  the  genial  sight  of 
faces  associated  with  the  frank  joys  of  his  youth,  Sir  Miles,  if 
he  did  not  forget  the  prudent  counsels  of  Dalibard,  conceived 
a  proud  bitterness  of  joy  in  despising  them.  Why  take  such 
care  of  the  worn-out  carcase?  His  will  was  made.  What  was 
left  to  life  so  peculiarly  attractive?  He  invited  his  friends  to  a 
feast  worthy  of  old ;  seasoned  revellers  were  they,  with  a  free 
gout  for  a  vent  to  all  indulgence.  So  they  came ;  and  they 
drank,  and  they  laughed,  and  they  talked  back  their  young 
days;  they  saw  not  the  nervous  irritation,  the  strain  on  the 
spirits,  the  heated  membrane  of  the  brain,  which  made  Sir  Miles 
the  most  jovial  of  all.  It  was  a  night  of  nights ;  the  old  fellows 
were  lifted  back  into  their  chariots  or  sedans.  Sir  Miles  alone 
seemed  as  steady  and  sober  as  if  he  had  supped  with  Diogenes. 
His  servant,  whose  respectful  admonitions  had  been  awed  into 
silence,  lent  him  his  arm  to  bed,  but  Sir  Miles  scarcely  touched 
it.  The  next  morning,  when  the  servant  (who  slept  in  the 
same  room)  awoke,  to  his  surprise  the  glare  of  a  candle 
streamed  on  his  eyes;  he  rubbed  them:  could  he  see  right? 
Sir  Miles  was  seated  at  the  table;  he  must  have  got  up,  and 
lighted  a  candle  to  write — noiselessly,  indeed.  The  servant 


LUCRETIA.  95 

looked  and  looked,  and  the  stillness  of  Sir  Miles  awed  him;  he 
was  seated  on  an  arm-chair,  leaning  back.  As  awe  succeeded 
to  suspicion,  he  sprang  up,  approached  his  master,  took  his 
hand ;  it  was  cold,  and  fell  heavily  from  his  clasp — Sir  Miles 
must  have  been  dead  for  hours. 

The  pen  lay  on  the  ground,  where  it  had  dropped  from  the 
hand ;  the  letter  on  the  table  was  scarcely  commenced ;  the 
words  ran  thus: 

"LUCRETIA: 

"You  will  return  no  more  to  my  house.  You  are  free  as  if  I 
were  dead ;  but  I  shall  be  just.  Would  that  I  had  been  so  to 
your  mother — to  your  sister!  But  I  am  old  now,  as  you  say, 
and — " 

To  none  who  could  have  seen  into  that  poor  proud  heart,  at 
the  moment  the  hand  paused  forever,  what  remained  unwritten 
would  have  been  clear.  There  was,  first,  the  sharp  struggle  to 
conquer  loathing  repugnance,  and  address  at  all  the  false  and 
degraded  one;  then  came  the  sharp  sting  of  ingratitude ;  then 
the  idea  of  the  life  grudged,  and  the  grave  desired ;  then  the 
stout  victory  over  scorn ;  the  resolution  to  be  just ;  then  the 
reproach  of  the  conscience,  that  for  so  far  less  an  offence,  the 
sister  had  been  thrown  aside — the  comfort,  perhaps,  found  in 
her  gentle  and  neglected  child,  obstinately  repelled — then  the 
conviction  of  all  earthly  vanity  and  nothingness ;  the  look  on 
into  life,  with  the  chilling  sentiment  that  affection  was  gone ; 
that  he  could  never  trust  again ;  that  he  was  too  old  to  open 
his  arms  to  new  ties;  and  then,  before  felt  singly,  all  these 
thoughts  united,  and  snapped  the  chord! 

In  announcing  his  mournful  intelligence,  with  more  feeling 
than  might  have  been  expected  from  a  lawyer  (but  even  his 
lawyer  loved  Sir  Miles)  Mr.  Parchmount  observed,  "that  as  the 
deceased  lay  at  an  hotel,  and  as  Miss  Clavering's  presence 
would  not  be  needed  in  the  performance  of  the  last  rites,  she 
would  probably  forbear  the  journey  to  town.  Nevertheless, 
it  was  Sir  Miles's  wish  that  the  will  should  be  opened  as  soon 
as  possible  after  his  death,  and  it  would  doubtless,  contain  in- 
structions as  to-  his  funeral,  it  would  be  well  that  Miss  Claver- 
ing  and  her  sister  should  immediately  depute  some  one  to 
attend  the  reading  of  the  testament,  on  their  behalf.  Per- 
haps Mr.  Fielden  would  kindly  undertake  that  melancholy 
office." 

To  do  justice  to  Lucretia,  it  must  be  said,  that  her  first 
emotions,  on  the  receipt  of  this  letter,  were  tho.f»e  of  a  poignant 


96  LUCRETIA. 

and  remorseful  grief,  for  which  she  was  unprepared.  But  how 
different  it  is  to  count  on  what  shall  follow  death,  and  to  know 
that  death  has  come!  Susan's  sobbing  sympathy  availed  not, 
nor  Mr.  Fielden's  pious  and  careful  exhortations ;  her  own  sin- 
ful thoughts  and  hopes  came  back  to  her,  haunting  and  stern  as 
furies.  She  insisted  at  first  upon  going  to  London ;  gazing 
once  more  on  the  clay :  nay,  the  carriage  was  at  the  door,  for 
all  yielded  to  her  vehemence ;  but  then  her  heart  misgave  her : 
she  did  not  dare  to  face  the  dead !  Conscience  waved  her 
back  from  the  solemn  offices  of  nature ;  she  hid  her  face  with 
her  hands,  shrunk  again  into  her  room ;  and  Mr.  Fielden,  as- 
suming unbidden  the  responsibility,  went  alone. 

Only  Vernon  (summoned  from  Brighton),  the  good  clergy- 
man, and  the  lawyer,  to  whom,  as  sole  executor,  the  will  was 
addressed,  and  in  whose  custody  it  had  been  left,  were  present 
when  the  seal  of  the  testament  was  broken.  The  will  was  long, 
as  is  common  when  the  dust  that  it  disposes  of  covers  some 
fourteen  or  fifteen  thousand  acres.  But  out  of  the  mass  of 
technicalities  and  repetitions,  these  points  of  interest  rose  sali- 
ent: To  Charles  Vernon,  of  Vernon  Grange,  Esq.,  and  his 
heirs  by  him  lawfully  begotten,  were  left  all  the  lands  and 
woods  and  manors  that  covered  that  space  in  the  Hampshire 
map,  known  by  the  name  of  the  "Laugh ton  property,"  on  con- 
dition that  he  and  his  heirs  assumed  the  name  and  arms  of  St. 
John;  and  on  the  failure  of  Mr.  Vernon's  issue,  the  estate 
passed,  first  (with  the  same  conditions)  to  the  issue  of  Susan 
Mivers ;  next,  to  that  of  Lucretia  Clavering.  There  the  entail 
ceased,  and  the  contingency  fell  to  the  rival  ingenuity  of  law- 
yers in  hunting  out,  amongst  the  remote  and  forgotten  de- 
scendants of  some  ancient  St.  John,  the  heir-at-law.  To  Lu- 
cretia Clavering,  without  a  word  of  endearment,  was  bequeathed 
£10,000,  the  usual  portion  which  the  house  of  St.  John  had 
allotted  to  its  daughters ;  to  Susan  Mivers  the  same  sum,  but 
with  the  addition  of  these  words,  withheld  from  her  sister: 
"  and  my  blessing!  "  To  Olivier  Dalibard,  an  annuity  of  £200 
a  year;  to  Honore  Gabriel  Varney,  £3000;  to  the  Rev. 
Matthew  Fielden,  £4000;  and  the  same  sum  to  John  Walter 
Ardworth.  To  his  favorite  servant,  Henry  Jones,  an  ample 
provision,  and  the  charge  of  his  dogs  Dash  and  Ponto,  with  an 
allowance  therefor,  to  be  paid  weekly,  and  cease  at  their 
deaths.  Poor  old  man  ;  he  made  it  the  interest  of  their  guard- 
ian not  to  grudge  their  lees  of  life !  To  his  other  attendants, 
suitable  and  munificent  bequests,  proportioned  to  the  length  of 
their  services.  For  his  body,  he  desired  it  buried  in  the  vault 


LUCRET1A.  97 

of  his  ancestors  without  pomp,  but  without  a  pretence  to  a 
humility  which  he  had  not  manifested  in  life ;  and  he  requested 
that  a  small  miniature  in  his  writing-desk  should  be  placed  in 
his  coffin.  That  last  injunction  was  more  than  a  sentiment,  it 
bespoke  the  moral  conviction  of  the  happiness  the  original 
might  have  conferred  on  his  life ;  of  that  happiness  his  pride 
had  deprived  him;  nor  did  he  repent,  for  he  had  deemed 
pride  a  duty ;  but  the  mute  likeness,  buried  in  his  grave — that 
told  the  might  of  the  sacrifice  he  had  made!  Death  removes 
all  distinctions,  and  in  the  coffin  the  Lord  of  Laughton  might 
choose  his  partner. 

When  the  will  had  been  read,  Mr.  Parchmount  produced 
two  letters,  one  addressed  in  the  hand  of  the  deceased  to  Mr. 
Vernon,  the  other  in  the  lawyer's  own  hand  to  Miss  Clavering. 
The  last  enclosed  the  fragment  found  on  Sir  Miles's  table,  and 
her  own  letter  to  Mainwaring,  redirected  to  her  in  Sir  Miles's 
boldest  and  stateliest  autograph.  He  had,  no  doubt,  meant  to 
return  it  in  the  letter  left  uncompleted. 

The  letter  to  Vernon  contained  a  copy  of  Lucretia's  fatal 
epistle,  and  the  following  lines  to  Vernon  himself: 

"Mv  DEAR  CHARLES: 

"With  much  deliberation,  and  with  natural  reluctance  to 
reveal  to  you  my  niece's  shame,  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  transmit 
to  you  the  accompanying  enclosure,  copied  from  the  original 
with  my  own  hand,  which  the  task  sullied.  I  do  so,  first,  be- 
cause otherwise  you  might,  as  I  should  have  done  in  your 
place,  feel  bound  in  honor  to  persist  in  the  offer  of  your  hand — 
feel  bound  the  more,  because  Miss  Clavering  is  not  my  heiress ; 
secondly,  because  had  her  attachment  been  stronger  than  her 
interest,  and  she  had  refused  your  offer,  you  might  still  have 
deemed  her  hardly  and  capriciously  dealt  with  by  me,  and  not 
only  sought  to  augment  her  portion,  but  have  profaned  the 
house  of  my  ancestors  by  receiving  her  there,  as  an  honored 
and  welcome  relative  and  guest.  Now,  Charles  Vernon,  I 
believe,  to  the  utmost  of  my  poor  judgment,  I  have  done  what 
is  right  and  just.  I  have  taken  into  consideration  that  this 
young  person  has  been  brought  up  as  a  daughter  of  my  house, 
and  what  the  daughters  of  my  house  have  received,  I  bequeath 
her ;  I  put  aside,  as  far  as  I  can,  all  resentment  of  mere  family 
pride ;  I  show  that  I  do  so,  when  I  repair  my  harshness  to  my 
poor  sister,  and  leave  both  her  children  the  same  provision. 
And  if  you  exceed  what  I  have  done  for  Lucretia,  unless,  on 
more  dispassionate  consideration  than  I  can  give,  you  consci- 


98  LUCRETIA. 

entiously  think  me  wrong,  you  insult  my  memory  and  impugn 
my  justice;  be  it  in  this  as  your  conscience  dictates;  but  I 
entreat,  I  adjure,  I  command  at  least,  that  you  never  knowingly 
admit  by  a  hearth,  hitherto  sacred  to  unblemished  truth  and 
honor,  a  person  who  has  desecrated  it  with  treason.  As  gen- 
tleman to  gentleman,  I  impose  on  you  this  solemn  injunction. 
I  could  have  wished  to  leave  that  young  woman's  children 
barred  from  the  entail ;  but  our  old  tree  has  so  few  branches ! 
You  are  unwedded ;  Susan,  too.  I  must  take  my  chance  that 
Miss  Clavering's  children,  if  ever  they  inherit,  do  not  imitate 
the  mother.  I  conclude  she  will  wed  that  Mainwaring;  her 
children  will  have  a  low-born  father.  Well,  her  race,  at  least, 
is  pure.  Clavering  and  St.  John  are  names  to  guarantee  faith 
and  honor ;  yet  you  see  what  she  is !  Charles  Vernon,  if  her 
issue  inherit  the  soul  of  gentlemen,  it  must  come,  after  all,  not 
from  the  well-born  mother!  I  have  lived  to  say  this;  I,  who — 
but  perhaps  if  we  had  looked  more  closely  into  the  pedigree  of 
those  Claverings!  — 

"Marry  yourself;  marry  soon,  Charles  Vernon,  my  dear 
kinsman ;  keep  the  old  house  in  the  old  line,  and  true  to  its 
old  fame.  Be  kind  and  good  to  my  poor ;  don't  strain  on  the 
tenants.  By  the  way,  Farmer  Strongbow  owes  three  years' 
rent;  I  forgive  him;  pension  him  off;  he  can  do  no  good  to 
the  land,  but  he  was  born  on  it,  and  must  not  fall  on  the  par- 
ish. But  to  be  kind  and  good  to  the  poor,  not  to  strain  on  the 
tenants,  you  must  learn  not  to  waste,  my  dear  Charles.  A 
needy  man  can  never  be  generous  without  being  unjust.  How 
give,  if  you  are  in  debt?  You  will  think  of  this — now — now — 
while  your  good  heart  is  soft ;  while  your  feelings  are  moved. 
Charley  Vernon,  I  think  you  will  shed  a  tear  when  you  see  my 
arm-chair  still  and  empty.  And  I  would  have  left  you  the 
care  of  my  dogs,  but  you  are  thoughtless,  and  will  go  much  to 
London,  and  they  are  used  to  the  country  now.  Old  Jones 
will  have  a  cottage  in  the  village;  he  has  promised  to  live 
there;  drop  in  now  and  then,  and  see  poor  Ponto  and  Dash. 
It  is  late,  and  old  friends  come  to  dine  here.  So,  if  anything 
happens  to  me,  and  we  don't  meet  again,  good-bye,  and  God 
bless  you. 

"Your  affectionate  kinsman, 

"MILES  ST.  JOHN." 


LUCRETIA.  99 

CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  ENGAGEMENT. 

IT  is  somewhat  less  than  three  months  after  the  death  of  Sir 
Miles  St.  John;  November  reigns  in  London.  And  "reigns" 
seems  scarcely  a  metaphysical  expression  as  applied  to  the  sul- 
len, absolute  sway,  which  that  dreary  month  (first  in  the 
dynasty  of  Winter)  spreads  over  the  passive,  dejected  city. 
Elsewhere  in  England  November  is  no  such  gloomy,  grim  fel- 
low as  he  is  described.  Over  the  brown  glebes  and  changed 
woods  in  the  country  his  still  face  looks  contemplative  and 
mild,  and  he  has  soft  smiles,  too,  at  times,  lighting  up  his  taxed 
vassals  the  groves,  gleaming  where  the  leaves  still  cling  to  the 
boughs,  and  reflected  in  dimples  from  the  waves  which  still 
glide  free  from  his  chains.  But  as  a  conqueror,  who  makes  his 
home  in  the  capital,  weighs  down  with  hard  policy  the  mutin- 
ous citizens,  long  ere  his  iron  influence  is  felt  in  the  province, 
so  the  first  tyrant  of  Winter  has  only  rigor  and  frowns  for  Lon- 
don. The  very  aspect  of  the  wayfarers  has  the  look  of  men 
newly  enslaved;  cloaked  and  muffled,  they  steal  to  and  fro 
through  the  dismal  fogs.  Even  the  children  creep  timidly 
through  the  streets;  the  carriages  go  cautious  and  hearse-like 
along;  daylight  is  dim  and  obscure;  the  town  is  not  filled,  nor 
the  brisk  mirth  of  Christmas  commenced ;  the  unsocial  shad- 
ows flit  amidst  the  mist,  like  men  on  the  eve  of  a  fatal  conspir- 
acy. Each  other  month  in  London  has  its  charms  for  the 
experienced.  Even  from  August  to  October,  when  The  Sea- 
son lies  dormant,  and  Fashion  forbids  her  sons  to  be  seen 
within  hearing  of  Bow,  the  true  lover  of  London  finds  pleasure 
still  at  hand,  if  he  search  for  her  duly — the  early  walks  through 
the  parks  and  green  Kensington  Gardens,  which  now  change 
their  character  of  resort,  and  seem  rural  and  countrylike,  but 
yet  with  more  life  than  the  country ;  for  on  the  benches  be- 
neath the  trees,  and  along  the  sward  and  up  the  malls,  are  liv- 
ing beings  enough  to  interest  the  eye  and  divert  the  thoughts,  if 
you  are  a  guesser  into  character,  and  amateur  of  the  human 
face;  fresh  nurserymaids  and  playful  children,  and  the  old 
shabby-genteel  buttoned-up  officer,  musing  on  half-pay,  as  he 
sits  alone  in  some  alcove  of  Kenna,  or  leans  pensive  over  the  rail 
of  the  vacant  Ring ;  and  early  tradesman,  or  clerk  from  the 
suburban  lodging,  trudging  brisk  to  his  business, — for  business 
never  ceases  in  London;  then  at  noon,  what  delight  to  escape 
to  the  banks  at  Putney  or  Richmond,  the  row  up  the  river; 


100  LUCRETIA. 

the  fishing-punt;  the  ease  at  your  inn  till  dark!  Or,  if  this 
tempt  not,  still  Autumn  shines  clear  and  calm  over  the  roofs, 
where  the  smoke  has  a  holiday ;  and  how  clean  gleam  the  vis- 
tas through  the  tranquillized  thoroughfares,  and  as  you  saunter 
along,  you  have  all  London  to  yourself,  Andrew  Selkirk,  but 
with  the  mart  of  the  world  for  your  desert!  And  when  Octo- 
ber comes  on,  it  has  one  characteristic  of  spring,  life  busily 
returns  to  the  city;  you  see  the  shops  bustling  up,  trade  flow- 
ing back;  as  birds  scent  the  April,  so  the  children  of  com- 
merce plume  their  wings,  and  prepare  for  the  first  slack  returns 
of  the  season.  But  November!  Strange  the  taste,  stout  the 
lungs,  grief-defying  the  heart  of  the  visitor  who  finds  charms 
and  joy  in  a  London  November. 

In  a  small  lodging  house  in  Bulstrode  Street,  Manchester 
Square,  grouped  a  family  in  mourning,  who  had  had  the  temer- 
ity to  come  to  town  in  November,  for  the  purpose,  no  doubt, 
of  raising  their  spirits.  In  the  dull,  small  drawing-room  of  the 
dull,  small  house,  we  introduce  to  you,  first,  a  middle-aged 
gentleman,  whose  dress  showed,  what  dress  now  fails  to  show, 
his  profession ;  nobody  could  mistake  the  cut  of  the  cloth,  and 
the  shape  of  the  hat,  for  he  had  just  come  in  from  a  walk,  and 
not  from  discourtesy,  but  abstraction,  the  broad  brim  still  shad- 
owed his  pleasant,  placid  face.  Parson  spoke  out  in  him,  from 
beaver  to  buckle.  By  the  coal  fire,  where,  through  volumes  of 
smoke,  fussed  and  flickered  a  pretension  to  flame,  sate  a  mid- 
dle-aged lady,  whom,  without  being  a  conjuror,  you  would  pro- 
nounce at  once  to  be  wife  to  the  parson:  and  sundry  children 
sate  on  stools  all  about  her,  with  one  book  between  them,  and  a 
low  whispered  murmur  from  their  two  or  three  pursed-up  lips, 
announcing  that  that  book  was  superfluous.  By  the  last  of 
three  dim-looking  windows,  made  dimmer  by  brown  moreen 
draperies,  edged  genteelly  with  black  cotton  velvet,  stood  a  girl 
of  very  soft  and  pensive  expression  of  features ;  pretty,  un- 
questionably— excessively  pretty — but  there  was  something  so 
delicate  and  elegant  about  her;  the  bend  of  her  head,  the 
shape  of  her  slight  figure,  the  little  fair  hands  crossed  one  on 
each  other,  as  the  face  mournfully  and  listlessly  turned  to  the 
window,  that  'pretty'  would  have  seemed  a  word  of  praise,  too 
often  proffered  to  milliner  and  serving  maid;  nevertheless, 
it  was  perhaps  the  right  one;  handsome  would  have  implied 
something  statelier  and  more  commanding;  beautiful,  greater 
regularity  of  feature,  of  richness  of  coloring.  The  parson, 
who,  since  his  entrance,  had  been  walking  up  and  down  the 
small  room,  with  his  hands  behind  him,  glancing  now  and  then 


LUCRETIA.  JOI 

at  the  young  lady,  but  not  speaking,  at  length  paused  from 
that  monotonous  exercise  by  the  chair  of  his  wife,  and  touched 
her  shoulder.  She  stopped  from  her  work,  which,  more  en- 
grossing than  elegant,  was  nothing  less  than  what  is  technically 
called  "the  taking  in"  of  a  certain  blue  jacket,  which  was  about 
to  pass  from  Matthew,  the  eldest  born,  to  David,  the  second, 
and  looked  up  at  her  husband  affectionately;  her  husband, 
however,  spoke  not ;  he  only  made  a  sign,  partly  with  his  eyt- 
brow,  partly  with  a  jerk  of  his  thumb  over  his  right  shoulder, 
in  the  direction  of  the  young  lady  we  have  described,  and 
then  completed  the  pantomime  with  a  melancholy  shake  of  the 
head.  The  wife  turned  round,  and  looked  hard,  the  scissors 
horizontally  raised  in  one  hand,  while  the  other  reposed  on  the 
cuff  of  the  jacket.  At  this  moment  a  low  knock  was  heard  at 
the  street  door.  The  worthy  pair  saw  the  .girl  shrink  back, 
with  a  kind  of  tremulous  movement ;  presently  there  came  the 
sound  of  a  footstep  below,  the  creak  of  a  hinge  on  the  ground 
floor,  and  again,  all  was  silent. 

"That  is  Mr.  Mainwaring's  knock,"  said  one  of  the 
children. 

The  girl  left  the  room  abruptly, .and,  light  as  was  her  step, 
they  heard  her  steal  up  the  stairs. 

"My  dears,"  said  the  parson,  "it  wants  an  hour  yet  to  dark; 
you  may  go  and  walk  in  the  square." 

"'Tis  so  dull  in  that  ugly  square,  and  they  wont  let  us  into 
the  green.  I  am  sure  we'd  rather  stay  here,"  said  one  of  the 
children,  as  spokesman  for  the  rest,  and  they  all  nestled  closer 
round  the  hearth. 

"But,  my  dears,"  said  the  parson  simply,  "I  want  to  talk 
alone  with  your  mother.  However,  if  you  like  best  to  go  and 
keep  quiet  in  your  own  room,  you  may  do  so." 

"Or  we  can  go  into  Susan's?" 

"No,"  said  the  parson;   "you  must  not  disturb  Susan." 

"She  never  used  to  care  about  being  disturbed.  I  wonder 
what's  come  to  her?" 

The  parson  made  no  rejoinder  to  this  half-petulant  question. 
The  children  consulted  together  a  moment,  and  resolved  that 
the  square,  though  so  dull,  was  less  dull  than  their  own  little 
attic.  That  being  decided,  it  was  the  mother's  turn  to  address 
them.  And  though  Mr.  Fielden  was  as  anxious  and  fond  as  most 
fathers,  he  grew  a  little  impatient  before  comforters,  kerchiefs, 
and  muffatees  were  arranged,  and  minute  exordiums  as  to  the 
danger  of  crossing  the  street,  and  the  risk  of  patting  strange 
dogs,  etc.,  etc.,  were  half-way  concluded;  with  a  shrug  and  a 


102  LUCRETIA. 

smile,  he  at  length  fairly  pushed  out  the  children,  shut  the 
door,  and  drew  his  chair  close  to  his  wife's. 

"My  dear,"  he  began,  at  once,  "I  am  extremely  uneasy 
about  that  poor  girl." 

"What!  Miss  Clavering?  Indeed,  she  eats  nothing  at  all, 
and  sits  so  moping  alone ;  but  she  sees  Mr.  Mainwaring  every 
day.  What  can  we  do?  She  is  so  proud,  I'm  afraid  of  her." 

"My  dear,  I  was  not  thinking  of  Miss  Clavering,  though  I 
did  not  interrupt  you,  for  it  is  very  true  that  she  is  much  to  be 
pitied." 

"And  I  am  sure  it  was  for  her  sake  alone  that  you  agreed  to 
Susan's  request,  and  got  Blackman  to  do  duty  for  you  at  the 
vicarage,  while  we  all  came  up  here,  in  hopes  London  town 
would  divert  her.  We  left  all  at  sixes  and  sevens;  and  I 
should  not  at  all  wonder  if  John  made  away  with  the  apples." 

"But,  I  say,"  resumed  the  parson,  without  heeding  that 
mournful  foreboding,  "I  say,  I  was  then  only  thinking  of 
Susan.  You  see  how  pale  and  sad  she  is  grown." 

"Why,  she  is  so  very  soft-hearted,  and  she  must  feel  for  her 
sister." 

"But  her  sister,  though  she  thinks  much,  and  keeps  aloof 
from  us,  is  not  sad  herself;  only  reserved.  On  the  contrary,  I 
believe  she  has  now  got  over  even  poor  Sir  Miles's  death." 

"And  the  loss  of  the  great  property!" 

"Fie,  Mary!"  said  Mr.  Fielden,  almost  austerely 

Mary  looked  down,  rebuked,  for  she  was  not  one  of  the 
high-spirited  wives  who  despise  their  husbands  for  goodness. 

"I  beg  pardon,  my  dear,"  she  said  meekly;  "it  was  very 
wrong  in  me;  but  I  cannot — do  what  I  will — I  cannot  like 
that  Miss  Clavering." 

"The  more  need  to  judge  her  with  charity.  And  if  what  I 
fear  is  the  case,  I'm  sure  we  can't  feel  too  much  compassion 
for  the  poor  blinded  young  lady." 

"Bless  my  heart,  Mr  Fielden,  what  is  it  you  mean?" 

The  parson  looked  round  to  be  sure  the  door  was  quite 
closed,  and  replied  in  a  whisper:  "I  mean,  that  I  fear  William 
Mainwaring  loves  not  Lucretia,  but  Susan." 

The  scissors  fell  from  the  hand  of  Mrs.  Fielden ;  and  though 
one  point  stuck  in  the  ground,  and  the  other  point  threatened 
war  upon  flounces  and  toes,  strange  to  say,  she  did  not  even 
stoop  to  remove  the  chevaux  de  frise. 

"Why,  then,  he's  a  most  false-hearted  young  man!" 

"To  blame,  certainly,"  said  Fielden.  "I  don't  say  to  the  con- 
trary, though  I  like  the  young  man,  and  am  sure  that  he  is  mor*1 


LUCRETIA.  103 

timid  than  false.  I  may  now  tell  you — for  I  want  your  advice, 
Mary — what  I  kept  secret  before.  When  Mainwaring  visited 
us,  many  months  ago,  at  Southampton,  he  confessed  to  me 
that  he  felt  warmly  for  Susan,  and  asked  if  I  thought  Sir  Miles 
would  consent.  I  knew  too  well  how  proud  the  poor  old  gen- 
tleman was  to  give  him  any  such  hopes.  So  he  left  very  hon- 
orably. You  remember,  after  he  went,  that  Susan's  spirits 
were  low — you  remarked  it." 

"Yes,  indeed,  I  remember.  But  when  the  first  shock  of  Sir 
Miles's  death  was  over,  she  got  back  her  sweet  color,  and 
looked  cheerful  enough." 

"Because,  perhaps,  then  she  felt  that  she  had  a  fortune  to 
bestow  on  Mr.  Mainwaring,  and  thought  all  obstacle  was  over." 

"Why,  how  clever  you  are!  How  did  you  get  at  her 
thoughts?" 

"My  own  folly — my  own  rash  folly,"  almost  groaned  Mr. 
Fielden.  "For,  not  guessing  that  Mr.  Mainwaring  could  have 
got  engaged  meanwhile  to  Lucretia,  and  suspecting  how  it  was 
with  Susan's  poor  little  heart,  I  let  out,  in  a  jest — Heaven  for- 
give me! — what  William  had  said;  and  the  dear  child  blushed, 
and  kissed  me,  and — why,  a  day  or  two  after,  when  it  was 
fixed  that  we  should  come  up  to  London,  Lucretia  informed 
me,  with  her  freezing  politeness,  that  she  was  to  marry  Main- 
waring  herself,  as  soon  as  her  first  mourning  was  over." 

"Poor,  dear — dear  Susan!" 

"Susan  behaved  like  an  angel;  and  when  I  broached  it  to 
her,  I  thought  she  was  calm ;  and  I  am  sure  she  prayed  with 
her  whole  heart  that  both  might  be  happy." 

"I'm  sure  she  did.  What  is  to  be  done?  I  understand  it 
all  now.  Dear  me,  dear  me!  a  sad  piece  of  work,  indeed." 
And  Mrs.  Fielden  abstractedly  picked  up  the  scissors. 

"It  was  not  till  our  coming  to  town,  and  Mr.  Mainwaring's 
visits  to  Lucretia,  that  her  strength  gave  way." 

"A  hard  sight  to  bear:  I  never  could  have  borne  it,  my  love. 
If  I  had  seen  you  paying  court  to  another,  I  should  have — I 
don't  know  what  I  should  have  done!  But  what  an  artful 
wretch  this  young  Mainwaring  must  be." 

"Not  very  artful;  for  you  see  that  he  looks  even  sadder  than 
Susan.  He  got  entangled  somehow,  to  be  sure.  Perhaps  he 
had  given  up  Susan  in  despair;  and  Miss  Clavering,  if 
haughty,  is  no  doubt  a  very  superior  young  lady ;  and,  I  dare 
say,  it  is  only  now  in  seeing  them  both  together,  and  compar- 
ing the  two,  that  he  feels  what  a  treasure  he  has  lost.  Well, 
what  do  you  advise,  Mary?  Mainwaring,  no  doubt,  is  bound 


104  LUCRETIA. 

in  honor  to  Miss  Clavering ;  but  she  will  be  sure  to  discover, 
sooner  or  later,  the  state  of  his  feelings,  and  then  I  tremble  for 
both.  I'm  sure  she  will  never  be  happy,  while  he  will  be 
wretched ;  and  Susan — I  dare  not  think  upon  Susan — she  has 
a  cough  that  goes  to  my  heart." 

"So  she  has;  that  cough — you  don't  know  the  money  I 
spend  on  black-currant  jelly!  What's  my  advice?  Why,  I'd 
speak  to  Miss  Clavering  at  once,  if  I  dared.  I'm  sure  love 
never  will  break  her-  heart;  and  she's  so  proud,  she'd  throw  him 
off  without  a  sigh,  if  she  knew  how  things  stood." 

"I  believe  you  are  right,"  said  Mr.  Fielden;  "for  truth  is 
the  best  policy  after  all.  Still,  it's  scarce  my  business  to  med- 
dle ;  and  if  it  were  not  for  Susan — well,  well,  I  must  think  of 
it,  and  pray  Heaven  to  direct  me." 

This  conference  suffices  to  explain  to  the  reader  the  stage  to 
which  the  history  of  Lucretia  had  arrived.  Willingly  we  pass 
over  what  it  were  scarcely  possible  to  describe — her  first  shock 
at  the  fall  from  the  expectations  of  her  life ;  fortune,  rank,  and, 
what  she  valued  more  than  either,  power,  crushed  at  a 
blow.  From  the  dark  and  sullen  despair  into  which  she  was 
first  plunged,  she  was  roused  into  hope — into  something  like 
joy — by  Mainwaring's  letters.  Never  had  they  been  so  warm 
arid  so  tender;  for  the  young  man  felt  not  only  poignant 
remorse  that  he  had  been  the  cause  of  her  downfall  (though  she 
broke  it  to  him  with  more  delicacy  than  might  have  been  ex- 
pected from  the  state  of  her  feelings  and  the  hardness  of  her 
character),  but  he  felt  also  imperiously  the  obligations  which 
her  loss  rendered  more  binding  than  ever.  He  persuaded,  he 
urged,  he  forced  himself  into  affection ;  and,  probably,  with- 
out a  murmur  of  his  heart,  he  would  have  gone  with  her  to 
the  altar,  and,  once  wedded,  custom  and  duty  would  have 
strengthened  the  chain  imposed  on  himself,  had  it  not  been  for 
Lucretia' s  fatal  eagerness  to  see  him,  to  come  up  to  London, 
where  she  induced  him  to  meet  her — for  with  her  came  Susan ; 
and  in  Susan's  averted  face,  and  trembling  hand,  and  mute 
avoidance  of  his  eye,  he  read  all  which  the  poor  dissembler 
fancied  she  concealed.  But  the  die  was  cast,  the  union  an- 
nounced, the  time  fixed,  and  day  by  day  he  came  to  the 
house,  to  leave  it  in  anguish  and  despair.  A  feeling  they 
shared  in  common  caused  these  two  unhappy  persons  to  shun 
each  other.  Mainwaring  rarely  came  into  the  usual  sitting- 
room  of  the  family ;  and  when  he  did  so,  chiefly  in  the  even- 
ing, Susan  usually  took  refuge  in  her  own  room.  If  they  met, 
it  was  by  accident,  on  the  stairs,  or  at  the  sudden  opening  of  a 


LtJCRfctiA.  t  165 

door;  then  not  only  no  word,  but  scarcely  even  a  look  was  ex- 
changed ;  neither  had  the  courage  to  face  the  other.  Perhaps, 
of  the  two,  the  reserve  weighed  most  on  Susan ;  perhaps,  she 
most  yearned  to  break  the  silence,  for  she  thought  she  divined 
the  cause  of  Mainwaring's  gloomy  and  mute  constraint,  in 
the  upbraidings  of  his  conscience,  which  might  doubtless 
recall,  if  no  positive  pledge  to  Susan,  at  least,  those  words  and 
tones  which  betray  one  heart,  and  seek  to  allure  the  other ; 
and  the  profound  melancholy  stamped  on  his  whole  person, 
apparent  even  to  her  hurried  glance,  touched  her  with  a  com- 
passion free  from  all  the  bitterness  of  selfish  reproach.  She 
fancied  she  could  die  happy  if  she  could  remove  that  cloud 
from  his  brow,  that  shadow  from  his  conscience.  Die — for 
she  thought  not  of  life.  She  loved  gently,  quietly ;  not  with 
the  vehement  passion  that  belongs  to  stronger  natures;  but  it 
was  the  love  of  which  the  young  and  the  pure  have  died.  The 
face  of  the  Genius  was  calm  and  soft ;  and  only  by  the  low- 
ering of  the  hand  do  you  see  that  the  torch  burns  out,  and  that 
the  image  too  serene  for  earthly  love  is  the  genius  of  loving 
Death. 

Absorbed  in  the  egotism  of  her  passion,  increased,  as  is  ever 
the  case  with  women,  even  the  worst,  by  the  sacrifices  it  had 
cost  her ;  and  if  that  passion  paused,  by  the  energy  of  her  am- 
bition, which  already  began  to  scheme  and  reconstruct  new 
scaffolds  to  repair  the  ruined  walls  of  the  past,  Lucretia  as  yet 
had  not  detected  what  was  so  apparent  to  the  simple  sense  of 
Mr.  Fielden.  That  Mainwaring  was  grave,  and  thoughtful, 
and  abstracted,  she  ascribed  only  to  his  grief  at  the  thought  of 
her  loss,  and  his  anxieties  for  her  altered  future;  and  in  her 
efforts  to  console  him,  her  attempts  to  convince  him  that 
greatness  in  England  did  not  consist  only  in  lands  and  manors ; 
that  in  the  higher  walks  of  life  which  conduct  to  the  Temple 
of  Renown,  the  leaders  of  the  procession  are  the  aristocracy  of 
knowledge  and  of  intellect,  she  so  betrayed,  not  generous 
emulation  and  high-souled  aspiring,  but  the  dark,  unscrupulous, 
tortuous  ambition  of  cunning,  stratagem,  and  intrigue,  that 
instead  of  feeling  grateful  and  encouraged,  he  shuddered  and 
revolted.  How,  accompanied  and  led  by  a  spirit  which  he  felt 
to  be  stronger  and  more  commanding  than  his  own — how  pre- 
serve the  whiteness  of  his  soul,  the  uprightness  of  his  honor! 
Already  he  felt  himself  debased.  But  in  the  still  trial  of 
domestic  intercourse,  with  the  daily,  hourly  dripping  on  the 
stone,  in  the  many  struggles  between  truth  and  falsehood,  guile 
and  candor,  which  men — and,  above  all,  ambitious  men— must 


io6  LUCRET1A. 

wage,  what  darker  angel  would  whisper  him  in  his  monitor? 
Still  he  was  bound — bound  with  an  iron  band ;  he  writhed,  but 
dreamed  not  of  escape. 

The  day  after  that  of  Fielden's  conference  with  his  wife,  an 
unexpected  visitor  came  to  the  house.  Olivier  Dalibard 
called.  He  had  not  seen  Lucretia  since  she  had  left  Laughton, 
nor  had  any  correspondence  passed  between  them.  He  came 
at  dusk,  just  after  Main  waring' s  daily  visit  was  over,  and  Lu- 
cretia was  still  in  the  parlor,  which  she  had  appropriated  to  her- 
self. Her  brow  contracted  as  his  name  was  announced,  and 
the  maid-servant  lighted  the  candle  on  the  table,  stirred  the 
fire,  and  gave  a  tug  at  the  curtains.  Her  eye,  glancing  from 
his,  round  the  mean  room,  with  its  dingy,  horsehair  furniture, 
involuntarily  implied  the  contrast  between  the  past  state  and 
the  present,  which  his  sight  could  scarcely  help  to  impress  on 
her.  But  she  welcomed  him  with  her  usual  stately  composure, 
and  without  reference  to  what  had  been.  Dalibard  was  secretly 
anxious  to  discover  if  she  suspected  himself  of  any  agency  in 
the  detection  of  the  eventful  letter,  and,  assured  by  her  man- 
ner that  no  such  thought  was  yet  harbored,  he  thought  it  best 
to  imitate  her  own  reserve.  He  assumed,  however,  a  manner 
that,  far  more  respectful  than  he  ever  before  observed  to  his 
pupil,  was  nevertheless  sufficiently  kind  and  familiar  to  restore 
them  gradually  to  their  old  footing ;  and  that  he  succeeded  was 
apparent,  when,  after  a  pause,  Lucretia  said  abruptly:  "How 
did  Sir  Miles  St.  John  discover  my  correspondence  with  Mr. 
Mainwaring?" 

"Is  it  possible  that  you  are  ignorant?  Ah,  how — how  should 
you  know  it?"  And  Dalibard  so  simply  explained  the  occur- 
rence, in  which,  indeed,  it  was  impossible  to  trace  the  hand 
that  had  moved  springs  which  seemed  so  entirely  set  at  work 
by  an  accident,  that  despite  the  extreme  suspiciousness  of  her 
nature,  Lucretia  did  not  see  a  pretence  for  accusing  him.  In- 
deed, when  he  related  the  little  subterfuge  of  Gabriel,  his 
attempt  to  save  her  by  taking  the  letter  on  himself,  she  felt 
thankful  to  the  boy,  and  deemed  Gabriel's  conduct  quite  in 
keeping  with  his  attachment  to  herself.  And  this  accounted 
satisfactorily  for  the  only  circumstance  that  had  ever  troubled 
her  with  a  doubt,  viz.,  the  legacy  left  to  Gabriel.  She  knew 
enough  of  Sir  Miles  to  be  aware  that  he  would  be  grateful  to 
any  one  who  had  saved  the  name  of  his  niece,  even  while  most 
embittered  against  her,  from  the  shame  attached  to  clandes- 
tine correspondence. 

"It  is  strange,  nevertheless,"  said  she  thoughtfully,  after  a 


LUCRETIA.  107 

pause,  "that  the  girl  should  have  detected  the  letter,  concealed, 
as  it  was,  by  the  leaves  that  covered  it." 

"But,"  answered  Dalibard  readily,  "you  see  two  or  three 
persons  had  entered  before,  and  their  feet  must  have  displaced 
the  leaves." 

"Possibly;  the  evil  is  now  past  recall." 

"And  Mr.  Main  waring?  Do  you  still  adhere  to  one  who  has 
cost  you  so  much,  poor  child?" 

"In  three  months  more  I  shall  be  his  wife." 

Dalibard  sighed  deeply,  but  offered  no  remonstrance. 

"Well,"  he  said,  taking  her  hand  with  mingled  reverence 
and  affection;  "Well,  I  oppose  your  inclinations  no  more,  for 
now  there  is  nothing  to  risk,  you  are  mistress  of  your  own  for- 
tune ;  and  since  Mainwaring  has  talents,  that  fortune  will  suffice 
for  a  career.  Are  you  at  length  convinced  that  I  have  conquered 
my  folly?  that  I  was  disinterested  when  I  incurred  your  dis- 
pleasure? If  so,  can  you  restore  to  me  your  friendship?  You 
will  have  some  struggle  with  the  world,  and,  with  my  long  ex- 
perience of  men  and  life,  even  I,  the  poor  exile,  may  assist 
you." 

And  so  thought  Lucretia;  for  with  some  dread  of  Dalibard's 
craft,  she  yet  credited  his  attachment  to  herself,  and  she  felt 
profound  admiration  for  an  intelligence  more  consummate  and 
accomplished  than  any  ever  yet  submitted  to  her  comprehen- 
sion. From  that  time,  Dalibard  became  an  habitual  visitor  at 
the  house;  he  never  interfered  with  Lucretia's  interviews  with 
Mainwaring;  he  took  the  union  for  granted,  and  conversed 
with  her  cheerfully  on  the  prospects  before  her ;  he  ingratiated 
himself  with  the  Fieldens,  played  with  the  children,  made  him- 
self at  home,  and  in  the  evenings  when  Mainwaring,  as  often 
as  he  could  find  the  excuse,  absented  himself  from  the  family 
circle,  he  contrived  to  draw  Lucretia  into  more  social  inter- 
course with  her  homely  companions  than  she  had  before  con- 
descended to  admit.  Good  Mr.  Fielden  rejoiced:  here  was 
the  very  person,  the  old  friend  of  Sir  Miles,  the  preceptor  of 
Lucretia  herself,  evidently  most  attached  to  her,  having  in- 
fluence over  her — the  very  person  to  whom  to  confide  his  em- 
barrassment. One  day,  therefore,  when  Dalibard  had  touched 
his  heart  by  noticing  the  paleness  of  Susan,  he  took  him  aside, 
and  told  him  all.  "And  now,"  concluded  the  pastor,  hoping 
he  had  found  one  to  relieve  him  of  his  dreaded  and  ungracious 
task,  "don't  you  think  that  I — or,  rather,  you — as  so  old  a 
friend,  should  speak  frankly  to  Miss  Clavering  herself." 

"No,  indeed,"  said  the  Provenfal  quickly;   "if  we  spoke  to 


Io8  LUCRETIA. 

her  she  would  disbelieve  us.  She  would  no  doubt  appeal  to 
Main  waring,  and  Mainwaring  would  have  no  choice  but  to  con- 
tradict us.  Once  put  on  his  guard,  he  would  control  his  very 
sadness.  Lucretia,  offended,  might  leave  your  house,  and  cer- 
tainly she  would  regard  her  sister  as  having  influenced  your 
confession — a  position  unworthy  Miss  Mivers.  But  do  not 
fear;  if  the  evil  be  so,  it  carries  with  it  its  inevitable  remedy. 
Let  Lucretia  discover  it  herself;  but,  pardon  me,  she  must  have 
seen,  at  your  first  reception  of  Mainwaring,  that  he  had  before 
been  acquainted  with  you?" 

"She  was  not  in  the  room  when  we  first  received  Mainwaring, 
and  I  have  always  been  distant  to  him,  as  you  may  suppose, 
for  I  felt  disappointed  and  displeased.  Of  course,  however, 
she  is  aware  that  we  knew  him  before  she  did.  What  of  that?" 

"Why;  do  you  think  then  he  told  her  at  Laughton  of  this  ac- 
quaintance? That  he  spoke  of  Susan?  I  suspect  not." 

"I  cannot  say,  I  am  sure,"  said  Mr.  Fielden. 

"Ask  her  that  question  accidentally,  and  for  the  rest  be  dis- 
creet, my  dear  sir.  I  thank  you  for  your  confidence.  I  will 
watch  well  over  my  poor  young  pupil.  She  must  not,  indeed, 
be  sacrificed  to  a  man  whose  affections  are  engaged  else- 
where." 

Dalibard  trod  on  air  as  he  left  the  house ;  his  very  counte- 
nance had  changed ;  he  seemed  ten  years  younger.  It  was 
evening;  and  suddenly,  as  he  came  into  Oxford  Street,  he  en- 
countered a  knot  of  young  men,  noisy  and  laughing  loud,  ob- 
structing the  pavement,  breaking  jests  on  the  more  sober  passen- 
gers, and  attracting  the  especial  and  admiring  attention  of  sun- 
dry ladies  in  plumed  hats  and  scarlet  pelisses ;  for  the  streets 
then  enjoyed  a  gay  liberty  which  has  vanished  from  London 
with  the  lanterns  of  the  watchman.  Noisiest,  and  most  con- 
spicuous of  these  descendants  of  the  Mohawks,  the  sleek  and 
orderly  scholar  beheld  the  childish  figure  of  his  son.  Nor  did 
Gabriel  shrink  from  his  father's  eye,  stern  and  scornful  as  it 
was,  but  rather  braved  the  glance  with  an  impudent  leer. 

Right,  however,  in  the  midst  of  the  group,  strode  the  Pro- 
vencal, and  laying  his  hand  very  gently  on  the  boy's  shoulder, 
he  said:  "My  son,  come  with  me." 

Gabriel  looked  irresolute,  and  glanced  at  his  companions. 
Delighted  at  the  prospect  of  a  scene,  they  now  gathered  round, 
with  countenances  and  gestures  that  seemed  little  disposed  to 
acknowledge  the  parental  authority. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Dalibard,  turning  a  shade  more  pale,  for 
though  morally  most  resolute,  physically  he  was  not  brave  j 


"Gentlemen,  I  must  beg  you  to  excuse  me — this  child  is  my 
son!" 

"But  Art  is  his  mother,"  replied  a  tall,  raw-boned  young  man, 
with  long  tawny  hair  streaming  down  from  a  hat  very  much 
battered.  "At  the  juvenile  age,  the  child  is  consigned  to  the 
mother!  Have  I  said  it?"  and  he  turned  round  theatrically 
to  his  comrades. 

"Bravo!"  cried  the  rest,  clapping  their  hands. 

"Down  with  all  tyrants  and  fathers — hip,  hip,  hurrah!" 
and  the  hideous  diapason  nearly  split  the  drum  of  the  ears  into 
which  it  resounded. 

"Gabriel,"  whispered  the  father,  "you  had  better  follow 
me,  had  you  not?  Reflect!"  So  saying,  he  bowed  low  to  the 
unpropitious  assembly,  and,  as  if  yielding  the  victory,  stepped 
aside,  and  crossed  over  towards  Bond  Street. 

Before  the  din  of  derision  and  triumph  died  away,  Dalibard 
looked  back,  and  saw  Gabriel  behind  him. 

"Approach,  sir,"  he  said,  and  as  the  boy  stood  still,  he 
added:  "I  promise  peace,  if  you  will  accept  it." 

"Peace,  then!"  answered  Gabriel,  and  he  joined  his  father's 
side. 

"So,"  said  Dalibard,  "when  I  consented  to  your  studying 
Art,  as  you  call  it,  under  your  mother's  most  respectable 
brother,  I  ought  to  have  contemplated  what  would  be  the  natu- 
ral and  becoming  companions  of  the  rising  Raffaele  I  have  given 
to  the  world." 

"I  own,  sir,"  replied  Gabriel  demurely,  "that  they  are 
riotous  fellows,  but  some  of  them  are  clever,  and — 

"And  excessively  drunk,"  interrupted  Dalibard,  examin- 
ing the  gait  of  his  son.  "Do  you  learn  that  accomplishment 
also,  by  way  of  steadying  your  hand  for  the  easel?" 

"No,  sir;  I  like  wine  well  enough,  but  I  would  not  be 
drunk  for  the  world.  I  see  people  when  they  are  drunk  are 
mere  fools,  let  out  their  secrets,  and  show  themselves  up." 

"Well  said,"  replied  the  father,  almost  admiringly;  "but  a 
truce  with  this  bantering,  Gabriel.  Can  you  imagine  that  I 
will  permit  you  any  longer  to  remain  with  that  vagabond  Var- 
ney,  and  yon  crew  of  Vauricns?  You  will  come  home  with 
me;  and  if  you  must  be  a  painter,  I  will  look  out  for  a  more 
trustworthy  master." 

"I  shall  stay  where  I  am,"  answered  Gabriel  firmly,  and 
compressing  his  lips  with  a  force  that  left  them  bloodless. 

"What,  boy?  Do  I  hear  right?  Dare  you  disobey  me? 
Dare  you  defy?" 


lid  LtlCREtlA. 

"Not  in  your  house,  so  I  will  not  enter  it  again." 

Dalibard  laughed  mockingly. 

"Peste!  but  this  is  modest!  You  are  not  of  age,  yet,  Mr. 
Varney;  you  are  not  free  from  a  father's  tyrannical  control." 

"The  law  does  not  own  you  as  my  father,  I  am  told,  sir; 
you  have  said  my  name  rightly — it  is  Varney,  not  Dalibard. 
We  have  no  rights  over  each  other;  so  at  least  says  Tom  Pass- 
more,  and  his  father's  a  lawyer!" 

Dalibard's  hand  griped  his  son's  arm  fiercely.  Despite  his 
pain,  which  was  acute,  the  child  uttered  no  cry ;  but  he  growled 
beneath  his  teeth,  "Beware !  beware!  Or  my  mother's  son  may 
avenge  her  death ! " 

Dalibard  removed  his  hand,  and  staggered  as  if  struck.  Glid- 
ing from  his  side,  Gabriel  seized  the  occasion  to  escape ;  he 
paused,  however,  midway  in  the  dull,  lamplit  kennel,  when  he 
saw  himself  out  of  reach,  and  then  approaching  cautiously, 
said:  "I  know  I  am  a  boy,  but  you  have  made  me  man  enough 
to  take  care  'of  myself.  Mr.  Varney,  my  uncle,  will  maintain 
me ;  when  of  age,  old  Sir  Miles  has  provided  for  me.  Leave 
me  in  peace ;  treat  me  as  free ;  and  I  will  visit  you,  help  you 
when  you  want  me,  obey  you  still;  yes,  follow  your  instruc- 
tions; for  I  know  you  are" — he  paused — "you  oxQivise  •  but  if 
you  seek  again  to  make  me  your  slave,  you  will  only  find  me 
your  foe.  Good-night ;  and  remember  that  a  bastard  has  no 
father ! ' ' 

With  these  words  he  moved  on,  and  hurrying  down  the  street, 
turned  the  corner,  and  vanished. 

Dalibard  remained  motionless  for  some  minutes ;  at  length, 
he  muttered:  "Ay,  let  him  go,  he  is  dangerous!  What  son 
ever  revolted  even  from  the  worst  father,  and  throve  in  life? 
Food  for  the  gibbet!  What  matters?" 

When  next  Dalibard  visited  Lucretia,  his  manner  was 
changed;  the  cheerfulness  he  had  before  assumed  gave  place 
to  a  kind  of  melancholy  compassion ;  he  no  longer  entered  into 
her  plans  for  the  future,  but  would  look  at  her  mournfully, 
start  up,  and  walk  away.  She  would  have  attributed  the  change 
to  some  return  of  his  ancient  passion,  but  she  heard  him  once 
murmur  with  unspeakable  pity:  "Poor  child — poor  child!" 
A  vague  apprehension  seized  her,  first,  indeed,  caught  from 
some  remarks  dropped  by  Mr.  Fielden,  which  were  less  dis- 
creet than  Dalibard  had  recommended.  A  day  or  two  after- 
wards she  asked  Mainwaring,  carelessly,  "why  he  had  never 
spoken  to  her  at  Laughton  of  his  acquaintance  with  Fielden." 

"You  asked  me  that  before,"  he  said,  somewhat  sullenly. 


LtfCRETiA.  lit 

"Did  I?     I  forget!     But  how  was  it?     Tell  me  again." 

"I  scarcely  know, "  he  replied  confusedly;  "we  were  always 
talking  of  each  other,  or  poor  Sir  Miles — our  own  hopes  and 
fears. ' ' 

This  was  true,  and  a  lover's  natural  excuse.  In  the  present 
of  love  all  the  past  is  forgotten. 

"Still,"  said  Lucretia,  with  her  sidelong  glance — "still,  as 
you  must  have  seen  much  of  my  own  sister — " 

Mainwaring,  while  she  spoke,  was  at  work  on  a  button  on 
his  gaiter  (gaiters  were  then  worn  tight  at  the  ankle),  the  effort 
brought  the  blood  to  his  forehead. 

"But,"  he  said,  still  stooping  at  his  occupation,  "you  were 
so  little  intimate  with  your  sister,  I  feared  to  offend.  Family 
differences  are  so  difficult  to  approach." 

Lucretia  was  satisfied  at  the  moment.  For  so  vast  was  her 
stake  in  Mainwaring's  heart,  so  did  her  whole  heart  and  soul 
grapple  to  the  rock  left  serene  amidst  the  deluge,  that  she  hab- 
itually and  resolutely  thrust  from  her  mind  all  the  doubts  that 
at  times  invaded  it. 

"I  know,"  she  would  often  say  to  herself;  "I  know  he 
does  not  love  as  I  do — but  man  never  can,  never  ought  to  love 
as  woman!  Were  I  a  man,  I  should  scorn  myself  if  I  could 
be  so  absorbed  in  one  emotion  as  I  am  proud  to  be  now — 1, 
poor  woman!  I  know,"  again  she  would  think;  "I  know  how 
suspicious  and  distrustful  I  am ;  I  must  not  distrust  him  ;  I 
shall  only  irritate — I  may  lose  him :  I  dare  not  distrust,  it  would 
be  too  dreadful." 

Thus,  as  a  system  vigorously  embraced  by  a  determined  mind, 
she  had  schooled  and  forced  herself  into  reliance  on  her  lover. 
His  words  now,  we  say,  satisfied  her  at  the  moment ;  but  after- 
wards, in  absence,  they  were  recalled,  in  spite  of  herself — in 
the  midst  of  fears,  shapeless  and  undefined.  Involuntarily  she  be- 
gan to  examine  the  countenance,  the  movements,  of  her  sister; 
to  court  Susan's  society  more  than  she  had  done,  for  her  pre- 
vious indifference  had  now  deepened  into  bitterness.  Susan, 
the  neglected  and  despised,  had  "become  her  equal,  nay,  more 
than  her  equal;  Susan's  children  would  have  precedence  to 
her  own  in  the  heritage  of  Laughton!  Hitherto  she  had  never 
deigned  to  talk  to  her  in  the  sweet  familiarity  of  sisters  so 
placed,  never  deigned  to  confide  to  her  those  feelings  for  her 
future  husband,  which  burned  lone  and  ardent  in  the  close 
vault  of  her  guarded  heart.  Now,  however,  she  began  to  name 
him,  wind  her  arm  into  Susan's,  talk  of  love  and  home,  and 
the  days  to  come;  and  as  she  spoke  she  read  the  workings  of 


114  tUCRfctlA. 

her  siste-r's  face.  That  part  of  the  secret  grew  clear  almost  at 
the  first  glance.  Susan  loved — loved  William  Mainwaring; 
but  was  it  not  a  love  hopeless  and  unreturned?  Might  not  this 
be  the  cause  that  had  made  Mainwaring  so  reserved?  He 
might  have  seen,  or  conjectured,  a  conquest  he  had  not  sought ; 
and  hence,  with  manly  delicacy,  he  had  avoided  naming  Susan 
to  Lucretia;  and  now,  perhaps,  sought  the  excuses  which  at 
times  had  chafed  and  wounded  her  for  not  joining  the  house- 
hold circle.  If  one  of  those  who  glance  over  these  pages  chance 
to  be  a  person  more  than  usually  able  and  acute — a  person  who 
has  loved  and  been  deceived — he  or  she,  no  matter  which,  will 
perhaps  recall  those  first  moments  when  the  doubt,  long  put 
off,  insisted  to  be  heard ;  a  weak  and  foolish  heart  gives  way 
to  the  doubt  at  once,  not  so  the  subtler  and  more  powerful ; 
it  rather,  on  the  contrary,  recalls  all  the  little  circumstances 
that  justify  trust  and  make  head  against  suspicion ;  it  will  not 
render  the  citadel  at  the  mere  sound  of  the  trumpet ;  it  arms 
all  its  forces,  and  bars  its  gates  on  the  foe.  Hence  it  is,  that 
the  persons  most  easy  to  dupe  in  matters  of  affection  are  usually 
those  most  astute  in  the  larger  affairs  of  life.  Moliere,  reading 
every  riddle  in  the  vast  complexities  of  human  character,  and 
clinging,  in  self-imposed  credulity,  to  his  profligate  wife,  is  a 
type  of  a  striking  truth.  Still,  a  foreboding,  a  warning  instinct, 
withheld  Lucretia  from  plumbing  farther  into  the  deeps  of  her 
own  fears.  So  horrible  was  the  thought  that  she  had  been  de- 
ceived, that,  rather  than  face  it,  she  would  have  preferred  to 
deceive  herself.  This  poor,  bad  heart  shrunk  from  inquiry; 
it  trembled  at  the  idea  of  condemnation.  She  hailed,  with  a 
sentiment  of  release  that  partook  of  rapture,  Susan's  abrupt 
announcement  one  morning,  that  she  had  accepted  an  invita- 
tion from  some  relations  of  her  father,  to  spend  some  time  with 
them  at  their  villa  near  Hampstead ;  she  was  to  go  the  end  of  the 
week.  Lucretia  hailed  it,  though  she  saw  the  cause.  Susan 
shrank  from  the  name  of  Mainwaring  on  Lucretia'slips — shrank 
from  the  familiar  intercourse  so  ruthlessly  forced  on  her! 
With  a  bright  eye,  that  day,  Lucretia  met  her  lover;  yet  she 
would  not  tell  him  of  Susan's  intended  departure ;  she  had  not 
the  courage. 

Dalibard  was  foiled.  This  contradiction  in  Lucretia's  tem- 
per— so  suspicious,  so  determined — puzzled  even  his  penetra- 
tion. He  saw  that  bolder  tactics  were  required.  He  waylaid 
Mainwaring  on  the  young  man's  way  to  his  lodgings,  and,  after 
talking  to  him  on  indifferent  matters,  asked  him  carelessly, 
whe*ber  b<?  did  not  think  Susan  far  gone  in  a  decline.  Affecting 


LUCRETIA.  113 

not  to  notice  the  convulsive  start  with  which  the  question  was 
received,  he  went  on: 

"There  is  evidently  something  on  her  mind;  I  observe  that 
her  eyes  are  often  red  as  with  weeping — poor  girl !  Perhaps 
some  silly  love  affair.  However,  we  shall  not  see  her  again 
before  your  marriage;  she  is  going  away  in  a  day  or  two;  the 
change  of  air  may  possibly  yet  restore  her:  I  own,  though,  I 
fear  the  worst.  At  this  time  of  the  year,  and  in  your  climate, 
such  complaints  as  I  take  hers  to  be  are  rapid.  Good-day. 
We  may  meet  this  evening." 

Terror-stricken  at  these  barbarous  words,  Mainwaring  no 
sooner  reached  his  lodgings  than  he  wrote  and  despatched  a 
note  to  Fielden,  entreating  him  to  call. 

The  Vicar  obeyed  the  summons,  and  found  Mainwaring  in 
a  state  of  mind  bordering  on  distraction ;  nor  when  Susan  was 
named  did  Fielden 's  words  take  the  shape  of  comfort;  for  he 
himself  was  seriously  alarmed  for  her  health ;  the  sound  of  her 
low  cough  rang  in  his  ears,  and  he  rather  heightened  than 
removed  the  picture  which  haunted  Mainwaring — Susan, 
stricken,  dying,  broken-hearted ! 

Tortured  both  in  heart  and  conscience,  Mainwaring  felt  as  if 
he  had  but  one  wish  left  in  the  world — to  see  Susan  once  more ! 
What  to  say  he  scarce  knew ;  but  for  her  to  depart — depart, 
perhaps,  to  her  grave,  believing  him  coldly  indifferent;  for 
her  not  to  know,  at  least,  his  struggles,  and  pronounce  his 
pardon,  was  a  thought  beyond  endurance.  After  such  an  in- 
terview both  would  have  new  fortitude ;  each  would  unite  in 
encouraging  the  other  in  the  only  step  left  to  honor.  And 
this  desire  he  urged  upon  Fielden  with  all  the  eloquence  of 
passionate  grief,  as  he  entreated  him  to  permit  and  procure 
one  last  conference  with  Susan.  But  this  the  plain  sense  and 
straightforward  conscience  of  the  good  man  long  refused.  If 
Mainwaring  had  been  left  in  the  position  to  explain  his  heart 
to  Lucretia,  it  would  not  have  been  for  Fielden  to  object;  but 
to  have  a  clandestine  interview  with  one  sister  while  betrothed 
to  the  other,  bore  in  itself  a  character  too  equivocal  to  meet 
with  the  simple  Vicar's  approval. 

"What  can  you  apprehend?"  exclaimed  the  young  man,  al- 
most fiercely — for,  harassed  and  tortured,  his  mild  nature  was 
driven  to  bay.  "Can  you  suppose  that  I  shall  encourage  my 
own  misery  by  the  guilty  pleadings  of  unavailing  love?  All  that 
I  ask  is  the  luxury — yes,  the  luxury — long  unknown  to  me,  of 
candor;  to  place  fairly  and  manfully  before  Susan  the  position 
in  which  fate  has  involved  me,  Can  you  suppose  that  we  shall 


114  LUCRETIA. 

not  both  take  comfort  and  strength  from  each  other?  Our 
duty  is  plain  and  obvious;  but  it  grows  less  painful,  encouraged 
by  the  lips  of  a  companion  in  suffering.  I  tell  you  fairly,  that 
see  Susan  I  will  and  must.  I  will  watch  round  her  home  wher- 
ever it  be,  hour  after  hour;  come  what  may,  I  will  find  my  oc- 
casion. Is  it  not  better  that  the  interview  should  be  under 
your  roof,  within  the  same  walls  which  shelter  her  sister?  There > 
the  place  itself  imposes  restraint  on.  despair.  Oh,  sir,  this  is  no 
time  for  formal  scruples — be  merciful,  I  beseech  you,  not  to 
me,  but  to  Susan.  I  judge  of  her  by  myself.  1  know  that  I 
shall  go  to  the  altar  more  resigned  to  the  future,  if  for  once  I 
can  give  vent  to  what  weighs  upon  my  heart.  She  will  then 
see  as  I  do,  that  the  path  before  me  is  inevitable,  she  will  com- 
pose herself  to  face  the  fate  that  compels  us.  We  shall  swear 
tacitly  to  each  other,  not  to  love,  but  to  conquer  love.  Believe 
me,  sir,  I  am  not  selfish  in  this  prayer:  an  instinct,  the  intui- 
tion which  human  grief  has  into  the  secrets  of  human  grief, 
assures  me  that  that  which  I  ask  is  the  best  consolation  you  can 
afford  to  Susan.  You  own  she  is  ill — suffering.  Are  not 
your  fears  for  her  very  life — O  Heaven,  for  her  very  life — 
gravely  awakened?  And  yet  you  see,  we  have  been  silent  to 
each  other!  Can  speech  be  more  fatal  in  its  results  than 
silence?  Oh,  for  her  sake  hear  me ! " 

The  good  man's  tears  fell  fast;  his  scruples  were  shaken; 
there  was  truth  in  what  Mainwaring  urged.  He  did  not  yield ; 
but  he  promised  to  reflect,  and  inform  Mainwaring,  by  a  line, 
in  the  evening.  Finding  this  was  all  he  could  effect,  the  young 
man  at  last  suffered  him  to  leave  the  house,  and  Fielden  hast- 
ened to  take  counsel  of  Dalibard ;  that  wily  persuader  soon 
reasoned  away  Mr.  Fielden 's  last  faint  objection:  it  now  only 
remained  to  procure  Susan's  assent  to  the  interview,  and  to  ar- 
range that  it  should  be  undisturbed.  Mr.  Fielden  should  take 
out  the  children  the  next  morning.  Dalibard  volunteered  to 
contrive  the  absence  of  Lucretia  at  the  hour  appointed.  Mrs. 
Fielden,  alone,  should  remain  within,  and  might,  if  it  were 
judged  proper,  be  present  at  the  interview,  which  was  fixed  for 
the  forenoon  in  the  usual  drawing-room.  Nothing  but  Susan's 
consent  was  now  necessary,  and  Mr.  Fielden  ascended  to  her 
room.  He  knocked  twice;  no  sweet  voice  bade  him  enter;  he 
opened  the  door  gently — Susan  was  in  prayer.  At  the  oppo- 
site corner  of  the  room,  by  the  side  of  her  bed,  she  knelt,  her 
face  buried  in  her  hands,  and  he  heard,  low-  and  indistinct,  the 
murmur  broken  by  the  sob.  But  gradually,  and,  as  he  stood 
unperceived,  sob  and  murmur  ceased ;  prayer  had  its  custorr,- 


LUCRETIA.  115 

ary  and  blessed  effect  with  the  pure  and  earnest.  And  when 
Susan  rose,  though  the  tears  yet  rolled  down  her  cheeks,  the 
face  was  serene  as  an  angel's. 

The  pastor  approached,  and  took  her  hand ;  a  blush  then 
broke  over  her  countenance,  she  trembled,  and  her  eyes  fell  on 
the  ground.  "My  child,"  he  said  solemnly,  "God  will  hear 
you!"  And,  after  those  words,  there  was  a  long  silence.  He 
then  drew  her  passively  towards  a  seat,  and  sate  down  by  her, 
embarrassed  how  to  begin.  At  length  he  said,  looking  somewhat 
aside:  "Mr.  Mainwaring  has  made  me  a  request — a  prayer — 
which  relates  to  you,  and  which  I  refer  to  you.  He  asks  you 
to  grant  him  an  interview,  before  you  leave  us — to-morrow,  if 
you  will.  I  refused  at  first ;  I  am  in  doubt  still ;  for,  my  dear, 
I  have  always  found  that,  when  the  feelings  move  usr  our  duty 
becomes  less  clear  to  the  human  heart — corrupt,  we  know,  but 
still  it  is  often  a  safer  guide  than  our  reason ;  I  never  knew 
reason  unerring,  except  in  mathematics;  we  have  no  Euclid 
(and  the  good  man  smiled  mournfully)  in  the  problems  of  real 
life ;  I  will  not  urge  you  one  way  or  the  other;  I  put  the  case 
before  you.  Would  it,  as  the  young  man  says,  give  you  comfort 
and  strength  to  see  him  once  again  while,  while — in  short,  be- 
fore your  sister  is — I  mean  before — that  is,  would  it  soothe  you 
now,  to  have  an  unreserved  communication  with  him?  He  im- 
plores it.  What  shall  I  answer?" 

"This  trial,  too!"  muttered  Susan,  almost  inaudibly;  "this 
trial  which  I  once  yearned  for,"  and  the  hand  clasped  in  Fiel- 
den's  was  as  cold  as  ice ;  then,  turning  her  eyes  to  her  guardian 
somewhat  wildly,  she  cried :  "  But  to  what  end  ?  What  object  ? 
Why  should  he  wish  to  see  me?" 

"To  take  greater  courage  to  do  his  duty;  to  feel  less  un- 
happy at — at — " 

"I  will  see  him,"  interrupted  Susan  firmly;  "he  is  right,  it 
will  strengthen  both — I  will  see  him!" 

"But  human  nature  is  weak,  my  child;  if  my  heart  be  so 
now,  what  will  be  yours?" 

"Fear  me  not,"  answered  Susan,  with  a  sad  wandering  smile ; 
and  she  repeated  vacantly,  "I  will  see  him!" 

The  good  man  looked  at  her,  threw  his  arms  round  her  wasted 
form,  and,  lifting  up  his  eyes,  his  lips  stirred  with  such  half- 
syllabled  words  as  fathers  breathe  on  high. 


n6  LUCRETIA. 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE    DISCOVERY. 

DALIBARD  had  undertaken  to  get  Lucretia  from  the  house ; 
in  fact,  her  approaching  marriage  rendered  necessary  a  com- 
munication with  Mr.  Parchmount,  as  executor  to  her  uncle's 
will,  relative  to  the  transfer  of  her  portion ;  and  she  had  asked 
Dalibard  to  accompany  her  thither,  for  her  pride  shrank  from 
receiving  the  lawyer  in  the  shabby  parlor  of  the  shabby  lodging- 
house;  she  therefore,  that  evening,  fixed  the  next  day,  before 
noon,  for  the  visit.  A  carriage  was  hired  for  the  occasion,  and, 
when  it  drove  off,  Mr.  Fielden  took  his  children  a  walk  to  Prim- 
rose Hill,  and  called,  as  was  agreed,  on  Mainwaring  by  the  way. 

The  caiUage  had  scarcely  rattled  fifty  yards  through  the 
•street  when  Dalibard  fixed  his  eyes,  with  deep  and  solemn 
;ommiseration,  on  Lucretia.  Hitherto,  with  masterly  art,  he 
had  kept  aloof  from  direct  explanations  with  his  pupil;  he 
knew  that  she  would  distrust  no  one  like  himself.  The  plot 
was  now  ripened,  and  it  was  time  for  the  main  agent  to  con- 
duct the  catastrophe.  The  look  was  so  expressive  that  Lucre- 
tia felt  a  chill  at  her  heart,  and  could  not  help  exclaiming: 
"What  has  happened?  You  have  some  terrible  tidings  to 
communicate?" 

"I  have  indeed  to  say  that  which  may,  perhaps,  cause  you 
to  hate  me  forever ;  as  we  hate  those  who  report  our  afflictions. 
I  must  endure  this ;  I  have  struggled  long  between  my  indig- 
nation and  my  compassion.  Rouse  up  your  strong  mind,  and 
hear  me.  Mainwaring  loves  your  sister!" 

Lucretia  uttered  a  cry  that  seemed  scarcely  to  come  from  a 
human  voice. 

"No — no!"  she  gasped  out;  "Do  not  tell  me.  I  will  hear 
no  more — I  will  not  believe  you ! " 

With  an  inexpressible  pity  and  softness  in  his  tone,  this  man, 
whose  career  had  given  him  such  profound  experience  in  the 
frailties  of  the  human  heart,  continued:  "I  do  not  ask  you  to 
believe  me,  Lucretia;  I  would  not  now  speak,  if  you  had  not 
the  opportunity  to  convince  yourself ;  even  those  with  whom 
you  live  are  false  to  you  ;  at  this  moment,  they  have  arranged 
all  for  Mainwaring  to  steal,  in  your  absence,  to  your  sister;  in 
a  few  moments  more  he  will  be  with  her;  if  you  yourself  would 
learn  what  passes  between  them,  you  have  the  power." 

"I  have — I  have  not — not — the  courage;  drive  on — faster- 
faster," 


LUCRETIA.  li; 

Dalibard  again  was  foiled.  In  this  strange  cowardice,  there 
was  something  so  terrible,  yet  so  touching,  that  it  became  sub- 
lime; it  was  the  grasp  of  a  drowning  soul  at  the  last  plank. 

"You  are  right,  perhaps,"  he  said,  after  a  pause;  and  wisely 
forbearing  all  taunt  and  resistance,  he  left  the  heart  to  its  own 
workings. 

Suddenly,  Lucretia  caught  at  the  check-string:  "Stop,"  she 
exclaimed;  "Stop,  I  will  not,  I  cannot  endure  this  suspense, 
to  last  through  a  life !  I  will  learn  the  worst.  Bid  him  drive 
back." 

"We  must  descend  and  walk;  you  forget  we  must  enter  un- 
suspected" ;  and  Dalibard,  as  the  carriage  stopped,  opened  the 
door,  and  let  down  the  steps. 

Lucretia  recoiled,  then  pressing  one  hand  to  her  heart,  she 
descended  without  touching  the  arm  held  out  to  her. 

Dalibard  bade  the  coachman  wait,  and  they  walked  back  to 
the  house. 

"Yes,  he  may  see  her,"  exclaimed  Lucretia,  her  face  bright- 
ening. "Ah,  there  you  have  not  deceived  me;  I  see  your  strat- 
agem— I  despise  it;  I  know  she  loves  him  ;  she  has  sought  this 
interview.  He  is  so  mild  and  gentle,  so  fearful  to  give  pain ; 
he  has  consented,  from  pity — that  is  all.  Is  he  not  pledged  to 
me?  He,  so  candid,  so  ingenuous!  There  must  be  truth 
somewhere  in  the  world.  If  he  is  false,  where  find  truth? 
Dark  man,  must  I  look  for  it  in  you? — You!" 

"It  is  not  my  truth  I  require  you  to  test;  I  pretend  not  to 
truth  universal ;  I  can  be  true  to  one,  as  you  may  yet  discover: 
but  I  own  your  belief  is  not  impossible ;  my  interest  in  you 
may  have  made  me  rash  and  unjust;  what  you  may  overhear, 
far  from  destroying,  may  confirm  forever  your  happiness. 
Would  that  it  may  be  so!" 

"It  must\>t  so,"  returned  Lucretia,  with  a  fearful  gloom  on 
her  brow  and  in  her  accent;  "I  will  interpret  every  word  to 
my  own  salvation." 

Dalibard's  countenance  changed,  despite  his  usual  control 
over  it.  He  had  set  all  his  chances  upon  this  cast,  and  it  was 
more  hazardous  than  he  had  deemed.  He  had  counted  too 
much  upon  the  jealousy  of  common  natures.  After  all,  how 
little  to  the  ear  of  one  resolved  to  deceive  herself  might  pass 
between  these  young  persons,  meeting  not  to  avow  attachment, 
but  to  take  courage  from  each  other!  What  restraint  might 
they  impose  on  their  feelings!  Still  the  game  must  be  played 
out. 

As  they  now  neared  the  house,  Dalibard  looked  carefully 


tlS  LUCRETIA. 

round,  lest  they  should  encounter  Mainwaring  on  his  way  to  it. 
He  had  counted  on  arriving  before  the  young  man  could  get 
there. 

"But,"  said  Lucretia,  breaking  silence,  with  an  ironical 
smile;  "But  (for  your  tender  anxiety  forme  has,  no  doubt, 
provided  all  means  and  contrivance,  all  necessary  aids  to  base- 
ness and  eaves-dropping,  that  can  assure  my  happiness)  how 
am  I  to  be  present  at  this  interview?" 

"I  have  provided,  as  you  say,"  answered  Dalibard,  in  the  tone 
of  a  man  deeply  hurt,  "those  means  which  I,  who  have  found  the 
world  one  foe  and  one  traitor,  deemed  the  best,  to  distinguish 
falsehood  from  truth.  I  have  arranged  that  we  shall  enter  the 
house  unsuspected.  Mainwaring  and  your  sister  will  be  in  the 
drawing-room ;  the  room  next  to  it  will  be  vacant,  as  Mr, 
Fielden  is  from  home ;  there  is  but  a  glass  door  between  the 
two  chambers." 

"Enough,  enough!"  and  Lucretia  turned  round,  and  placed 
her  hand  lightly  on  the  Provencal's  arm.  "The  next  hour  will 
decide  whether  the  means  you  suggest  to  learn  truth  and  de- 
fend safety  will  be  familiar  or  loathsome  to  me  for  life ;  will 
decide  whether  trust  is  a  madness:  whether  you,  my  youth's 
teacher,  are  the  wisest  of  men,  or  only  the  most  dangerous." 

"Believe  me,  or  not,  when  I  say,  I  would  rather  the  decision 
should  condemn  me;  for  I,  too,  have  need  of  confidence  in 
men." 

Nothing  further  was  said ;  the  dull  street  was  quiet  and  des- 
olate as  usual.  Dalibard  had  taken  with  him  the  key  of  the 
house-door.  The  door  opened  noiselessly;  they  were  in  the 
house.  Main  waring' s  cloak  was  in  the  hall;  he  had  arrived  a 
few  moments  before  them.  Dalibard  pointed  silently  to  that 
evidence  in  favor  of  his  tale.  Lucretia  bowed  her  head,  but 
with  a  look  that  implied  defiance;  and  (still  without  a  word) 
she  ascended  the  stairs,  and  entered  the  room  appointed  for 
concealment.  But  as  she  entered,  at  the  further  corner  of  the 
chamber  she  saw  Mrs.  Fielden  seated — seated,  remote  and  out 
of  hearing.  The  good-natured  woman  had  yielded  to  Mainwar- 
ing's  prayer,  and  Susan's  silent  look  that  enforced  it,  to  let  their 
interview  be  unwitnessed.  She  did  not  perceive  Lucretia  till 
the  last  walked  glidingly,  but  firmly,  up  to  her,  placed  a  burn- 
ing hand  on  her  lips,  and  whispered:  "Hush,  betray  me  not; 
my  happiness  for  life — Susan's — his — are  at  stake!  I  must 
hear  what  passes;  it  is  my  fate  that  is  deciding.  Hush — I 
command!  For  I  have  the  right!" 

Mrs.  Fielden  was  awed  and  startled ;  and  before  she  could 


LUCRETIA.  119 

recover  even  breath,  Lucretia  had  quitted  her  side,  and  taken 
her  post  at  the  fatal  door.  She  lifted  the  corner  of  the  curtain 
from  the  glass  panel,  and  looked  in. 

Mainwaring  was  seated  at  a  little  distance  from  Susan,  whose 
face  was  turned  from  her.  Mainwaring's  countenance  was  in 
full  view.  But  it  was  Susan's  voice  that  met  her  ear;  and 
though  sweet  and  low,  it  was  distinct,  and  even  firm.  It  was 
evident  from  the  words  that  the  conference  had  but  just  begun. 

"Indeed,  Mr.  Mainwaring,  you  have  nothing  to  explain — 
nothing  of  which  to  accuse  yourself.  It  was  not  for  this,  be- 
lieve me,"  and  here  Susan  turned  her  face,  and  its  aspect  of 
heavenly  innocence  met  the  dry  lurid  eye  of  the  unseen  wit- 
ness; "not  for  this,  believe  me,  that  I  consented  to  see  you. 
If  I  did  so,  it  was  only  because  I  thought — because  I  feared 
from  your  manner  when  we  met  at  times,  still  more  from  your 
evident  avoidance  to  meet  me  at  all,  that  you  were  unhappy 
(for  I  know  you  kind  and  honest) ;  unhappy  at  the  thought 
that  you  had  wounded  me,  and  my  heart  could  not  bear  that, 
nor,  perhaps,  my  pride  either.  That  you  should  have  for- 
gotten me — " 

"Forgotten  you!" 

"That  you  should  have  been  captivated"  (continued  Susan 
in  a  more  hurried  tone)  "by  one  so  superior  to  me  in  all 
things  as  Lucretia,  is  very  natural.  I  thought,  then — thought 
only — that  nothing  could  cloud  your  happiness  but  some  re- 
proach of  a  conscience  too  sensitive.  For  this  I  have  met 
you — met  you  without  a  thought  which  Lucretia  would  have  a 
right  to  blame,  could  she  read  my  heart;  met  you  (and  the 
voice  for  the  first  time  faltered),  that  I  might  say,  'Be  at 
peace:  it  is  your  sister  that  addresses  you.  Requite  Lucretia's 
love;  it  is  deep  and  strong;  give  her,  as  she  gives  to  you — a 
whole  heart,  and  in  your  happiness,  I,  your  sister — sister  to 
both — /  shall  be  blest."  With  a  smile  inexpressibly  touching 
and  ingenious  she  held  out  her  hand  as  she  ceased.  Mainwar- 
ing sprang  forward,  and,  despite  her  struggle,  passed  it  to  his 
lips— his  heart. 

"Oh,"  he  exclaimed,  in  broken  accents,  which  gradually 
became  more  clear  and  loud,  "what — what  have  I  lost! — Lost 
forever!  No,  no,  I  will  be  worthy  of  you!  I  do  not — I  dare 
not  say  that  I  love  you  still !  I  feel  what  I  owe  to  Lucretia. 
How  I  became  first  ensnared,  infatuated;  how,  with  your 
image  graven  so  deeply  here — " 

"Mainwaring — Mr.  Mainwaring — I  must  not  hear  you.  Is 
this  your  promise?" 


I2d  LUCRETtA. 

"Yes,  you  must  hear  me  yet.  How  I  became  engaged  to 
your  sister — so  different,  indeed,  from  you — I  start  in  amaze 
and  bewilderment  when  I  seek  to  conjecture.  But  so  it  was. 
For  me  she  has  forfeited  fortune,  rank — all  which  that  proud, 
stern  heart  so  prized  and  coveted.  Heaven  is  my  witness  how 
I  have  struggled  to  repay  her  affection  with  my  own;  if  I  can- 
not succeed,  at  least,  all  that  faith  and  gratitude  can  give  are 
hers.  Yes;  when  I  leave  you,  comforted  by  your  forgiveness, 
your  prayers,  I  shall  have  strength  to  tear  you  from  my  heart; 
it  is  my  duty — my  fate.  With  a  firm  step  I  will  go  to  these 
abhorred  nuptials.  Oh,  shudder  not;  turn  not  away!  For- 
give the  word;  but  I  must  speak — my  heart  will  out — yes,  ab- 
horred nuptials !  Between  my  grave  and  the  altar,  would — 
would  that  I  had  a  choice!" 

From  this  burst,  which  in  vain  from  time  to  time  Susan  had 
sought  to  check,  Mainwaring  was  startled  by  an  apparition 
which  froze  his  veins,  as  a  ghost  from  the  grave.  The  door 
was  thrown  open,  and  Lucretia  stood  in  the  aperture — stood, 
gazing  on  him,  face  to  face;  and  her  own  was  so  colorless,  so 
rigid,  so  locked  in  its  livid  and  awful  solemnity  of  aspect,  that 
it  was,  indeed,  as  one  risen  from  the  dead. 

Dismayed  by  the  abrupt  cry,  and  the  changed  face  of  her 
lover,  Susan  turned  and  beheld  her  sister.  With  the  impulse 
of  the  pierced  and  loving  heart,  which  divined  all  the  agony 
inflicted,  she  sprang  to  Lucretia's  side,  she  fell  to  the  ground, 
and  clasped  her  knees. 

"Do  no  heed — do  not  believe  him:  it  is  but  the  frenzy  of  a 
moment.  He  spoke  but  to  deceive  me — me,  who  loved  him 
once!  Mine  alone — mine  is  the  crime.  He  knows  all  your 
worth;  pity — pity — pity  on  yourself,  on  him — on  me!" 

Lucretia's  eyes  fell  with  the  glare  of  a  fiend  upon  the  implor- 
ing face  lifted  to  her  own.  Her  lips  moved,  but  no  sound  was 
audible.  At  length  she  drew  herself  from  her  sister's  clasp, 
and  walked  steadily  up  to  Mainwaring.  She  surveyed  him 
with  a  calm  and  cruel  gaze,  as  if  she  enjoyed  his  shame  and 
terror.  Before,  however,  she  spoke,  Mrs.  Fielden,  who  had 
witched,  as  one  spellbound,  Lucretia's  movements,  and  with- 
out hearing  what  had  passed,  had  the  full  foreboding  of  what 
would  ensue,  but  had  not  stirred  till  Lucretia  herself  terminated 
the  suspense,  and  broke  the  charm  of  her  awe — before  she 
spoke,  Mrs.  Fielden  rushed  in,  and  giving  vent  to  her  agita- 
tion in  loud  sobs,  as  she  threw  her  arms  round  Susan,  who 
was  still  kneeling  on  the  floor,  brought  something  of  grotesque 
to  the  more  tragic  and  fearful  character  of  the  scene. 


LUCRETIA.  121 

"My  uncle  was  right;  there  is  neither  courage  nor  honor  in 
the  low-born!  He,  the  schemer,  too,  is  right.  All  hollow — • 
all  false!"  Thus  said  Lucretia,  with  a  strange  sort  of  musing 
accent,  at  first  scornful,  at  last  only  quietly  abstracted.  "Rise, 
sir,"  she  then  added,  with  her  most  imperious  tone;  "do  you 
not  hear  your  Susan  weep?  Do  you  fear  in  my  presence  to 
console  her?  Coward  to  her,  as  forsworn  to  me.  Go,  sir,  you 
are  free!" 

"Hear  me,"  faltered  Mainwaring,  attempting  to  seize  her 
hand;  "I  do  not  ask  you  to  forgive;  but — " 

"Forgive,  sir!"  interrupted  Lucretia,  rearing  her  head,  and 
with  a  look  of  freezing  and  unspeakable  majesty,  "there  is 
only  one  person  here  who  needs  a  pardon;  but  her  fault  is  in- 
expiable: it  is  the  woman  who  stooped  beneath  her! — " 

With  these  words,  hurled  from  her  with  a  scorn  which 
crushed,  while  it  galled,  she  mechanically  drew  round  her  form 
her  black  mantle;  her  eye  glanced  on  the  deep  mourning  of  the 
garment,  and  her  memory  recalled  all  that  that  love  had  cost 
her;  but  she  added  no  other  reproach.  Slowly  she  turned 
away:  passing  Susan,  who  lay  senseless  in  Mrs.  Fielden'sarms, 
she  paused,  and  kissed  her  forehead. 

"When  she  recovers,  madam,"  she  said,  to  Mrs.  Fielden, 
who  was  moved  and  astonished  by  this  softness,  "say,  that  Lu- 
cretia Clavering  uttered  a  vow,  when  she  kissed  the  brow  of 
William  Mainwaring's  future  wife!" 

Olivier  Dalibard  was  still  seated  in  the  parlor  below  when 
Lucretia  entered.  Her  face  yet  retained  its  almost  unearthly 
rigidity  and  calm;  but  a  sort  of  darkness  had  come  over  its 
ashen  pallor — that  shade  so  indescribable  which  is  seen  in  the 
human  face,  after  long  illness,  a  day  or  two  before  death. 
Dalibard  was  appalled,  for  he  had  too  often  seen  that  hue  in 
the  dying,  not  to  recognize  it  now.  His  emotion  was  suffi- 
ciently genuine  to  give  more  than  usual  earnestness  to  his  voice 
and  gesture,  as  he  poured  out  every  word  that  spoke  sympathy 
and  soothing.  For  a  long  time  Lucretia  did  not  seem  to  hear 
him;  at  last  her  face  softened — the  ice  broke. 

Motherless — friendless — lone — alone  forever — undone — un- 
done!" she  murmured.  Her  head  sunk  upon  the  shoulder 
of  her  fearful  counsellor,  unconscious  of  its  resting-place,  and 
she  burst  into  teajs — tears  which,  perhaps,  saved  her  reason  or 
her  life. 


122  LUCRETIA. 

CHAPTER  IX. 

A    SOUL    WITHOUT    HOPE. 

WHEN  Mr.  Fielden  returned  home  Lucretia  had  quitted  the 
house.  She  left  a  line  for  him  in  her  usual  bold,  clear  hand- 
writing, referring  him  to  his  wife  for  explanation  of  the  reasons 
that  forbade  a  further  residence  beneath  his  roof.  She  had 
removed  to  an  hotel,  until  she  had  leisure  to  arrange  her  plans 
for  the  future.  In  a  few  months  she  should  be  of  age;  and  in 
the  mean  while,  who  now  living  claimed  authority  over  her? 
For  the  rest  she  added:  "I  repeat  what  I  told  Mr.  Mainwar- 
ing,  all  engagement  between  us  is  at  an  end;  he  will  not  insult 
me  either  by  letter  or  by  visit.  It  is  natural  that  I  should  at  pres- 
ent shrink  from  seeing  Susan  Mivers.  Hereafter,  if  permitted, 
I  will  visit  Mrs.  Mainwaring. " 

Though  all  had  chanced  as  Mr.  Fielden  had  desired  (if,  as 
he  once  half  meditated,  he  had  spoken  to  Lucretia  herself), 
though  a  marriage  that  could  have  brought  happiness  to  none, 
and  would  have  made  the  misery  of  two,  was  at  an  end,  he  yet 
felt  a  bitter  pang,  almost  of  remorse,  when  he  learned  what  had 
occurred.  And  Lucretia,  before  secretly  disliked  (if  any  one 
he  could  dislike),  became  dear  to  him  at  once,  by  sorrow  and 
compassion.  Forgetting  every  other  person  he  hurried  to  the 
hotel  Lucretia  had  chosen,  but  her  coldness  deceived  and  her 
pride  repelled  him.  She  listened  drily  to  all  he  said,  and 
merely  replied:  "I  feel  only  gratitude  at- my  escape.  Let  this 
subject  now  close  forever." 

Mr.  Fielden  left  her  presence  with  less  anxious  and  commis- 
erating feelings;  perhaps  all  had  chanced  for  the  best.  And, 
on  returning  home,  his  whole  mind  became  absorbed  in  alarm 
for  Susan.  She  was  delirious  and  in  great  danger;  it  was 
many  weeks  before  she  recovered.  Meanwhile  Lucretia  had 
removed  into  private  apartments,  of  which  she  withheld  the 
address.  During  this  time,  therefore,  they  lost  sight  of  her. 

If,  amidst  the  punishments  with  which  the  sombre  imagina- 
tion of  poets  have  diversified  the  Realm  of  the  tortured  Shad- 
ows, it  had  depicted  some  soul  condemned  to  look  evermore 
down  into  an  abyss — all  change  to  its  gaze  forbidden — chasm 
upon  chasm,  yawning  deeper  and  deeper,  darker  and  darker, 
endless  and  infinite;  so  that,  eternally  gazing,  the  soul  became, 
as  it  were,  a  part  of  the  abyss,  such  an  image  would  symbol 
forth  the  state  of  Lucretia' s  mind. 


LUCRETIA.  123 

It  was  not  the  mere  desolation  of  one  whom  love  has  aban- 
doned and  betrayed.  In  the  abyss  were  mingled  inextricably 
together  the  gloom  of  the  past  and  of  the  future;  there,  the 
broken  fortunes,  the  crushed  ambition,  the  ruin  of  the  worldly 
expectations  long  inseparable  from  her  schemes;  and  amidst 
them,  the  angry  shade  of  the  more  than  father,  whose  heart  she 
had  wrung,  and  whose  old  age  she  had  speeded  to  the  grave. 
These  sacrifices  to  love,  while  love  was  left  to  her,  might  have 
haunted  her  at  moments,  but  a  smile,  a  word,  a  glance  banished 
the  regret  and  the  remorse.  Now,  love  being  razed  out  of 
life,  the  ruins  of  all  else  loomed  dismal  amidst  the  darkness; 
and  a  voice  rose  up,  whispering,  "Lo,  fool!  what  thou  hast 
lost  because  thou  didst  believe  and  love!"  And  this  thought 
grasped  together  the  two  worlds  of  being— the  what  has  been 
and  the  what  shall  be.  All  hope  seemed  stricken  from  the 
future  as  a  man  strikes  from  the  calculations  of  his  income  the 
returns  from  a  property  irrevocably  lost.  At  her  age.  but  few 
of  her  sex  have  parted  with  religion,  but  even  such  mechanical 
faith  as  the  lessons  of  her  childhood,  and  the  constrained  con- 
formities with  Christian  ceremonies,  had  instilled,  had  long 
since  melted  away  in  the  hard  scholastic  scepticism  of  her  fatal 
tutor — a  scepticism  which  had  won,  with  little  effort,  a  reason 
delighting  in  the  maze  of  doubt,  and  easily  narrowed  into  the 
cramped  and  iron  logic  of  disbelief,  by  an  intellect  that  scorned 
to  submit  where  it  failed  to  comprehend.  Nor  had  faith 
given  place  to  those  large  moral  truths  from  which  philosophy 
has  sought  to  restore  the  proud  statue  of  pagan  Virtue  as  a 
substitute  for  the  meek  symbol  of  the  Christian  cross.  Ey  tem- 
perament unsocial,  nor  readily  moved  to  the  genial  and  benev- 
olent, that  absolute  egotism  in  which  Olivier  Dalibard  centred 
his  dreary  ethics  seemed  sanctioned  to  Lucretia  by  her  studies 
into  the  motives  of  man  and  the  history  of  the  world.  She 
had  read  the  chronicles  of  states  and  the  memoirs  of  states- 
men, and  seen  how  craft  carries  on  the  movements  of  an  age. 
Those  Viscontis,  Castruccios,  and  Medici;  those  Richelieus, 
and  Mazarins,  and  de  Retzs;  those  Loyolas,  and  Mahomets, 
and  Cromwells;  those  Monks  and  Godolphins;  those  Marl- 
boroughs  and  Walpoles;  those  founders  of  history,  and  dynas- 
ties, and  sects;  those  leaders  and  dapers  of  men,  greater  or 
lesser,  corruptors  or  corrupt— all  standing  out  prominent  and 
renowned  from  the  guiltless  arid  laurelless  obscure — seemed  to 
win,  by  the  homage  of  posterity,  the  rewards  that  attend  the 
deceivers  of  their  time.  By  a  superb  arrogance  of  generaliza- 
tion, she  transferred  into  private  life,  and  the  rule  of  common- 


124  LUCRETIA. 

place  actions,  the  policy  that,  to  the  abasement  of  honor,  has 
so  often  triumphed,  in  the  guidance  of  states.  Therefore,  be- 
times the  whole  frame  of  society  was  changed  to  her  eye,  from 
the  calm  aspect  it  wears  to  those  who  live  united  with  their 
kind;  she  viewed  all  seemings  with  suspicion;  and  before  she 
had  entered  the  world,  prepared  to  live  in  it  as  a  conspirator 
in  a  city  convulsed,  spying  and  espied,  schemed  against  and 
scheming — here  the  crown  for  the  crafty,  there  the  axe  for 
the  outwitted. 

But  her  love,  for  love  is  trust,  had  led  her  half-way  forth 
from  this  maze  of  the  intellect.  That  fair  youth  of  inexperi- 
ence and  candor,  which  seemed  to  bloom  out  in  the  face  of  her 
betrothed ;  his  very  shrinking  from  the  schemes  so  natural  to 
her,  that  to  her  they  seemed  even  innocent;  his  apparent  reli- 
ance on  mere  masculine  ability,  with  the  plain  aids  of  perse- 
verance and  honesty — all  had  an  attraction  that  plucked  her 
back  from  herself.  If  she  clung  to  him,  firmly,  blindly,  cred- 
ulously, it  was  not  as  the  lover  alone.  In  the  lover,  she  beheld 
.the  good  angel.  Had  he  only  died  to  her,  still  the  angel  smile 
would  have  survived  and  warned.  But  the  man  had  not  died, 
the  angel  itself  had  deceived;  the  wings  could  uphold  her  no 
more — they  had  touched  the  mire,  and  were  sullied  with  the 
soil;  with  the  stain,  was  forfeited  the  strength.  All  was  deceit 
and  hollowness  and  treachery.  Lone  again  in  the  universe, 
rose  the  eternal  7.  So  down  into  the  abyss  she  looked,  depth 
upon  depth,  and  the  darkness  had  no  relief,  and  the  deep  had 
no  end. 

Olivier  Dalibard  alone,  of  all  she  knew,  was  admitted  to  her 
seclusion.  He  played  his  part  as  might  be  expected  from  the 
singular  patience  and  penetration  which  belonged  to  the  genius 
of  his  character.  He  forbore  the  most  distant  allusion  to  his 
attachment  or  his  hopes.  He  evinced  sympathy  rather,  by 
imitating  her  silence,  than  attempts  to  console.  When  he  spoke, 
he  sought  to  interest  her  mind,  more  than  to  heal  directly  the 
deep  wounds  of  her  heart.  There  is  always,  to  the  afflicted,  a 
certain  charm  in  the  depth  and  bitterness  of  eloquent  misan- 
thropy. And  Dalibard,  who  professed  not  to  be  a  man-hater, 
but  a  world-scorner,  had  powers  of  language  and  of  reasoning 
commensurate  with  his  astute  intellect  and  his  profound  re- 
search. His  society  became  not  only  a  relief,  it  grew  almost  a 
want,  to  that  stern  sorrower.  But,  whether  alarmed  or  not  by 
the  influence  she  felt  him  gradually  acquiring,  or  whether, 
through  some  haughty  desire  to  rise  once  more  aloft  from  the 
state  of  her  rival  and  her  lover,  she  made  one  sudden  effort  to 


LUCRETIA.  125 

grasp  at  the  rank  from  which  she  had  been  hurled.  The  only 
living  person,  whose  connection  could  reopen  to  her  the  great 
world,  with  its  splendors  and  its  scope  to  ambition,  was  Charles 
Vernon.  She  scarcely  admitted  to  her  own  mind  the  idea  that 
she  would  now  accept,  if  offered,  the  suit  she  had  before  de- 
spised; she  did  not  even  contemplate  the  renewal  of  that  suit; 
though  there  was  something  in  the  gallant  and  disinterested 
character  of  Vernon  which  should  have  made  her  believe  he 
would  regard  their  altered  fortunes  rather  as  a  claim  on  his 
honor  than  a  release  to  his  engagements.  But  hitherto  no 
communication  had  passed  between  them,  and  this  was  strange 
if  he  retained  the  same  intentions  which  he  had  announced  at 
Laughton.  Putting  aside,  we  say,  however,  all  such  consider- 
ations, Vernon  had  sought  her  friendship,  called  her  "cousin," 
enforced  the  distant  relationship  between  them.  Not  as  lover, 
but  as  kinsman,  the  only  kinsman  of  her  own  rank  she  pos- 
sessed, his  position  in  the  world,  his  connections,  his  brilliant 
range  of  acquaintance,  made  his  counsel  for  her  future  plans,  his 
aid  in  the  re-establishment  of  her  consequence  (if  not  as  wealthy, 
still  as  well  born),  and  her  admission  amongst  her  equals,  of 
price  and  value.  It  was  worth  sounding  the  depth  of  the 
friendship  he  had  offered,  even  if  his  love  had  passed  away 
with  the  fortune  on  which  doubtless  it  had  been  based. 

She  took  a  bold  step;  she  wrote  to  Vernon,  not  even  to  al- 
lude to  what  had  passed  between  them :  her  pride  forbade 
such  unwomanly  vulgarity.  The  baseness  that  was  in  her 
took  at  least  a  more  delicate  exterior.  She  wrote  to  him 
simply  and  distantly,  to  state  that  there  were  some  books  and 
trifles  of  hers  left  at  Laughton,  which  she  prized  beyond  their 
trivial  value;  and  to  request,  as  she  believed  him  to  be  absent 
from  the  hall,  permission  to  call  at  her  old  home,  in  her  way  to 
a  visit  in  a  neighboring  county,  and  point  out  to  whomsoever 
he  might  appoint  to  meet  her,  the  effects  she  deemed  herself 
privileged  to  claim.  The  letter  was  one  merely  of  business, 
but  it  was  a  sufficient  test  of  the  friendly  feelings  of  her  former 
suitor. 

She  sent  this  letter  to  Vernon's  house  in  London,  and  the 
next  day  came  the  answer. 

Vernon,  we  must  own,  entirely  sympathized  with  Sir  Miles 
in  the  solemn  injunctions  the  old  man  had  bequeathed.  Im- 
mediately after  the  death  of  one  to  whom  we  owe  gratitude  and 
love,  all  his  desires  take  a  sanctity  irresistible  and  ineffable. 
We  adopt  his  affections,  his  dislikes,  his  obligations,  and  his 
wrongs.  And  after  he  had  read  the  copy  of  Lucretia's  letter, 


126  LUCRETIA. 

enclosed  to  him  by  Sir  Miles,  the  conquest  the  poor  Baronet 
had  made  over  resentment  and  vindictive  emotion,  the  evident 
effort  at  passionless  justice  with  which  he  had  provided  becom- 
ingly for  his  niece,  while  he  cancelled  her  claims  as  his  heiress, 
had  filled  Vernon  with  a  reverence  for  his  wishes  and  decisions, 
that  silenced  all  those  inclinations  to  over-generosity  which  an 
unexpected  inheritance  is  apt  to  create  towards  the  less  fortu- 
nate expectants;  nevertheless,  Lucretia's  direct  application, 
her  formal  appeal  to  his  common  courtesy  as  host  and  kinsman, 
perplexed  greatly  a  man  ever  accustomed  to  a  certain  chivalry 
towards  the  sex;  the  usual  frankness  of  his  disposition  sugges- 
ted, however,  plain  dealing  as  the  best  escape  from  his  dilem- 
ma, and  therefore  he  answered  thus: 

"MADAM: 

"Under  other  circumstances  it  would  have  given  me  no 
common  pleasure  to  place  the  house,  that  you  so  long  inhabited, 
again  at  your  disposal.  And  I  feel  so  painfully  the  position 
which  my  refusal  of  your  request  inflicts  upon  me,  that  rather 
than  resort  to  excuses  and  pretexts,  which,  while  conveying  an 
impression  of  my  sincerity,  would  seem  almost  like  an  insult  to 
yourself,  I  venture  frankly  to  inform  you,  that  it  was  the  dying 
wish  of  my  lamented  kinsman,  in  consequence  of  a  letter  which 
came  under  his  eye,  that  the  welcome  you  had  hitherto  re- 
ceived at  Laughton  should  be  withdrawn.  Pardon  me,  Mad- 
am, if  I  express  myself  thus  bluntly;  it  is  somewhat  necessary 
to  the  vindication  of  my  character  in  your  eyes,  both  as  regards 
the  honor  of  your  request  and  my  tacit  resignation  of  hopes, 
fervently,  but  too  presumptuously,  entertained.  In  this  most 
painful  candor,  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  add  wantonly  to 
your  self-reproaches  for  the  fault  of  youth  and  inexperience, 
which  I  should  be  the  last  person  to  judge  rigidly,  and  which, 
had  Sir  Miles's  life  been  spared,  you  would  doubtless  have 
amply  repaired.  The  feelings  which  actuated  Sir  Miles  in  his 
latter  days  might  have  changed;  but  the  injunction  those  feel- 
ings prompted  I  am  bound  to  respect. 

"For  the  mere  matter  of  business  on  which  you  have  done 
me  the  honor  to  address  me,  I  have  only  to  say,  that  any  orders 
you  may  give  to  the  steward,  or  transmit  through  any  person 
you  may  send  to  the  hall,  with  regard  to  the  effects  you  so  nat- 
urally desire  to  claim,  shall  be  implicitly  obeyed. 

"And  believe  me,  Madam  (though  I  do  not  presume  to  add 
those  expressions  which  might  rather  heighten  the  offence  I 
fear  this  letter  will  give  you),  that  the  assurance  of  your  happi- 


LUCRETIA.  \2'J 

ness  in  the  choice  you  have  made,  and  which  now  no  obstacle 

can   oppose,  will  considerably  lighten  the  pain  with  which  I 

shall  long  recall  my  ungracious  reply  to  your  communication. 

"I  have  the  honor  to  be,  etc.  etc. 

"C.  VERNON  ST.  JOHN 
"Brook  Street,  Dec.  28,  18— ." 

The  receipt  of  such  a  letter  could  hardly  add  to  the  pro- 
founder  grief  which  preyed  in  the  innermost  core  of  Lucretia's 
heart,  but  in  repelling  the  effort  she  had  made  to  distract  that 
grief  by  ambition,  it  blackened  the  sullen  despondency  with 
which  she  regarded  the  future.  As  the  insect  in  the  hollow 
snare  of  the  ant-lion,  she  felt  that  there  was  no  footing  up  the 
sides  of  the  cave  into  which  she  had  fallen — the  sand  gave  way 
to  the  step.  But  despondency  in  her  brought  no  meekness; 
the  cloud  did  not  descend  in  rain;  resting  over  the  horizon,  its 
darkness  was  tinged  with  the  fires  which  it  fed.  The  heart, 
already  so  embittered,  was  stung  and  mortified  into  intolerable 
shame  and  wrath.  From  the  home  that  should  have  been  hers, 
in  which,  as  acknowledged  heiress,  she  had  smiled  down  on 
the  ruined  Vernon,  she  was  banished  by  him  who  had  sup- 
planted her,  as  one  worthless  and  polluted.  Though,  from 
motives  of  obvious  delicacy,  Vernon  had  not  said  expressly  that 
he  had  seen  the  letter  to  Maimvaring,  the  unfamiliar  and  for- 
mal tone  which  he  assumed  indirectly  declared  it,  and  betrayed 
the  impression  it  had  made  in  spite  of  his  reserve.  A  living  man 
then  was  in  possession  of  a  secret  which  justified  his  disdain, 
and  that  man  was  master  of  Laughton!  The  suppressed  rage 
which  embraced  the  lost  lover  extended  darkly  over  this  wit- 
ness to  that  baffled  and  miserable  love.  But  what  availed  rage 
against  either?  Abandoned  and  despoiled,  she  was  powerless 
to  avenge.  It  was  at  this  time,  when  her  prospects  seemed 
most  dark,  her  pride  was  most  crushed,  and  her  despair  of  the 
future  at  its  height,  that  she  turned  to  Dalibard  as  the  only 
friend  left  to  her  under  the  sun.  Even  the  vices  she  perceived 
in  him  became  merits,  for  they  forbade  him  to  despise  her. 
And  now,  this  man  rose  suddenly  into  another  and  higher  as- 
pect of  character:  of  late,  though  equally  deferential  to  her, 
there  had  been  something  more  lofty  in  his  mien,  more  assured 
on  his  brow;  gleams  of  a  secret  satisfaction,  even  of  a  joy,  that 
he  appeared  anxious  to  suppress,  as  ill  in  harmony  with  her 
causes  for  dejection,  broke  out  in  his  looks  and  words.  At 
length,  one  day,  after  some  preparatory  hesitation,  he  informed 
her  that  he  was  free  to  return  to  France;  that  even  without 


128  LUCRETIA. 

the  peace  between  England  and  France,  which  (known  undefc 
the  name  of  the  Peace  of  Arniens)  had  been  just  concluded, 
he  should  have  crossed  the  Channel.  The  advocacy  and  inter- 
est of  friends,  whom  he  had  left  at  Paris,  had  already  brought 
him  under  the  special  notice  of  the  wonderful  man  who  then 
governed  France,  and  who  sought  to  unite  in  its  service  every 
description  and  variety  of  intellect.  He  should  return  to 
France,  and  then — why,  then,  the  ladder  was  on  the  walls  of 
Fortune  and  the  foot  planted  on  the  step!  As  he  spoke,  con- 
fidently and  sanguinely,  with  the  verve  and  assurance  of  an 
able  man  who  sees  clear  the  path  to  his  goal;  as  he  sketched 
with  rapid  precision  the  nature  of  his  prospects  and  his  hopes, 
all  that  subtle  wisdom  which  had  before  often  seemed  but 
vague  and  general  took  practical  shape  and  interest,  thus  ap- 
plied to  the  actual  circumstances  of  men;  the  spirit  of  intrigue, 
which  seemed  mean  when  employed  on  mean  things,  swelled 
into  statesmanship  and  masterly  genius  to  the  listener,  when 
she  saw  it  linked  with  the  large  objects  of  masculine  ambi- 
tion. Insensibly,  therefore,  her  attention  became  earnest,  her 
mind  aroused.  The  vision  of  a  field,  afar  from  the  scenes  of 
her  humiliation  and  despair — a  field  for  energy,  stratagem,  and 
contest — invited  her  restless  intelligence.  As  Dalibard  had 
profoundly  calculated,  there  was  no  new  channel  for  her  affec- 
tions; the  source  was  dried  up,  and  the  parched  sands  heaped 
over  it;  but  while  the  heart  lay  dormant,  the  mind  rose,  sleep- 
less, chafed,  and  perturbed.  Through  the  mind,  he  indirectly 
addressed  and  subtly  wooed  her. 

"Such,"  he  said,  as  he  rose  to  take  leave;  "Such  is  the 
career  to  which  I  could  depart  with  joy  if  I  did  not  depart 
alone!" 

"Alone!"  That  word,  more  than  once  that  day,  Lucretia 
repeated  to  herself;  "Alone!"  And  what  career  was  left  to 
her — she,  too,  alone! 

In  certain  stages  of  great  grief,  our  natures  yearn  for  excite- 
ment. This  has  made  some  men  gamblers;  it  has  made  even 
women  drunkards;  it  had  effect  over  the  serene  calm  and 
would-be  divinity  of  the  Poet-sage.  When  his  son  dies,  Goethe 
does  not  mourn,  he  plunges  into  the  absorption  of  a  study  un- 
cultivated before.  But  in  the  great  contest  of  life,  in  the  whirl- 
pool of  actual  affairs,  the  stricken  heart  finds  all — the  gambl- 
ing, the  inebriation,  and  the  study. 

We  pause  here.  We  have  pursued  long  enough  that  patient 
analysis,  with  all  the  food  for.  reflection  that  it  possibly  affords, 
to  which  we  were  insensibly  led  on  by  an  interest,  dark  and 


LUCRETlA.  129 

fascinating,  that  grew  more  and  more  upon  us  as  we  proceeded 
in  our  research  into  the  early  history  of  a  person  fated  to  per- 
vert no  ordinary  powers  into  no  commonplace  guilt. 

The  charm  is  concluded,  the  circle  closed  round;  the  self- 
guided  seeker  after  knowledge  has  gained  the  fiend  for  the 
familiar. 

CHAPTER  X. 

THE     RECONCILIATION    BETWEEN    FATHER    AND   SON. 

WE  pass  over  an  interval  of  some  months. 

A  painter  stood  at  work  at  the  easel;  his  human  model  be- 
fore him.  He  was  employed  on  a  nymph — the  Nymph  Gala- 
tea. The  subject  had  been  taken  before  by  Salvator,  whose 
genius  found  all  its  elements  in  the  wild  rocks,  gnarled  fantas- 
tic trees,  and  gushing  waterfalls  of  the  landscape;  in  the  huge 
ugliness  of  Polyphemus  the  lover;  in  the  grace  and  suavity  and 
conscious  abandonment  of  the  nymph,  sleeking  her  tresses 
dripping  from  the  bath.  The  painter,  on  a  large  canvas  (for 
Salvator's  picture,  at  least  the  one  we  have  seen,  is  among  the 
small  sketches  of  the  great  artistic  creator  of  the  romantic  and 
grotesque),  had  transferred  the  subject  of  the  master;  but  he 
had  left  subordinate  the  landscape  and  the  giant,  to  concentrate 
all  his  art  on  the  person  of  the  Nymph.  Middle-aged  was  the 
painter,  in  truth;  but  he  looked  old.  His  hair,  though  long, 
was  gray  and  thin;  his  face  was  bloated  by  intemperance;  and 
his  hand  trembled  much,  though  from  habit  no  trace  of  the 
tremor  was  visible  in  his  work. 

A  boy,  near  at  hand,  was  also  employed  on  the  same  subject, 
with  a  rough  chalk  and  a  bold  freedom  of  touch.  He  was 
sketching  his  design  of  a  Galatea  and  Polyphemus  on  the  wall; 
for  the  wall  was  only  whitewashed,  and  covered  already  with 
the  multiform  vagaries  whether  of  master  or  pupils;  caricatures 
and  demigods,  hands  and  feet,  torsos  and  monsters,  and  Ve- 
nuses;  the  rude  creations,  all  mutilated,  jarring,  and  mingled, 
gave  a  cynical,  mocking,  devil  may-care  kind  of  aspect  to  the 
sanctum  of  art.  It  was  like  the  dissection-room  of  the  anato- 
mist. The  boy's  sketch  was  more  in  harmony  with  the  walls 
of  the  studio  than  the  canvas  of  the  master.  His  nymph,  ac- 
curately drawn  from  the  undressed  proportions  of  the  model 
down  to  the  waist,  terminated  in  the  scales  of  a  fish.  The 
forked  branches  of  the  trees  stretched  weird  and  imp-like  as 
the  hands  of  skeletons.  Polyphemus,  peering  over  the  rocks, 
had  the  leer  of  a  demon;  and  in  his  gross  features  there  was  a 


130  LUCRETIA. 

certain  distorted,  hideous  likeness  of  the  grave  and  symmetri- 
cal lineaments  of  Olivier  Dalibard. 

All  around  was  slovenly,  squalid,  and  poverty-stricken; 
rickety,  worn-out,  rush-bottom  chairs;  unsold,  unfinished  pic- 
tures, pell-mell  in  the  corner,  covered  with  dust;  broken  casts 
of  plaster;  a  lay-figure  battered  in  its  basket-work  arms,  with 
its  doll-like  face  all  smudged  and  besmeared:  a  pot  of  porter 
and  a  noggin  of  gin  on  a  stained  deal  table,  accompanied  by 
two  or  three  broken,  smoke-blackened  pipes,  some  tattered  song- 
books,  and  old  numbers  of  the  Covent  Garden  Magazine,  be- 
trayed the  tastes  of  the  artist,  and  accounted  for  the  shaking 
hand  and  the  bloated  form.  A  jovial,  disorderly,  vagrant  dog 
of  a  painter,  was  Tom  Varney!  A  bachelor,  of  course — hu- 
morous and  droll — a  boon  companion,  and  a  terrible  borrower: 
clever  enough  in  his  calling;  with  pains  and  some  method,  he 
had  easily  gained  subsistence  and  established  a  name;  but  he 
had  one  trick  that  soon  ruined  him  in  the  business  part  of  his 
profession.  He  took  a  fourth  of  his  price  in  advance;  and 
having  once  clutched  the  money,  the  poor  customer  might  go 
hang  for  his  picture!  The  only  things  Tom  Varney  ever 
fairly  completed  were  those  for  which  no  order  had  been 
given;  for  in  their^  somehow  or  other,  his  fancy  became  inter- 
ested, and  on  them  he  lavished  the  gusto  which  he  really  pos- 
sessed. But  the  subjects  were  rarely  salable.  Nymphs  and 
deities  undraperied  have  few  worshippers  in  England  amongst 
the  buyers  of  "furniture  pictures."  And,  to  say  truth,  nymph 
and  deity  had  usually  a  very  equivocal  look;  and  if  they  came 
from  the  gods,  you  would  swear  it  was  the  gods  of  the  galleries 
of  Drury.  When  Tom  Varney  sold  a  picture,  he  lived  upon 
clover  till  the  money  was  gone.  But  the  poorer  and  less  steady 
alumni  of  the  rising  school,  especially  those  at  war  with  the 
Academy  from  which  Varney  was  excluded,  pitied,  despised, 
yet  liked  and  courted  him  withal.  In  addition  to  his  good 
qualities  of  blithe  song-singer,  droll  story-teller,  and  stanch 
Bacchanalian,  Tom  Varney  was  liberally  good-natured  in  com- 
municating instruction  really  valuable  to  those  who  knew  how 
to  avail  themselves  of  a  knowledge  he  had  made  almost  worth- 
less to  himself.  He  was  a  shrewd,  though  good-natured  critic, 
had  many  little  secrets  of  coJoring  and  composition,  which  an 
invitation  to  supper,  or  the  loan  of  ten  shillings,  was  sufficient 
to  bribe  from  him.  Ragged,  out  of  elbows,  unshaven,  and 
slipshod,  he  still  had  his  set,  amongst  the  gay  and  the  young — 
a  precious  master,  a  profitable  set,  for  his  nephew,  Master 
Honore  Gabriel  !  But  the  poor  rapscallion  had  a  heart  larger 


LUCRETIA.  131 

than  many  honest,  painstaking  men.  As  soon  as  Gabriel  had 
found  him  out,  and  entreated  refuge  from  his  fear  of  his  father, 
the  painter  clasped  him  tight  in  his  great  slovenly  arms,  sold  a 
Venus  half-price  to  buy  him  a  bed  and  a  washstand,  and  swore 
a  tremendous  oath,  "that  the  son  of  his  poor  guillotined  sister 
should  share  the  last  shilling  in  his  pocket,  the  last  drop  in  his 
can." 

Gabriel,  fresh  from  the  cheer  of  Laughton,  and  spoiled  by 
the  prodigal  gifts  of  Lucretia,  had  little  gratitude  for  shillings 
and  porter.  Nevertheless,  he  condescended  to  take  what  he 
could  get,  while  he  sighed,  from  the  depths  of  a  heart  in  which 
cupidity  and  vanity  had  become  the  predominant  rulers,  for  a 
destiny  more  worthy  his  genius,  and  more  in  keeping  with  the 
sphere  from  which  he  had  descended. 

The  boy  finished  his  sketch  with  an  impudent  wink  at  the 
model,  flung  himself  back  on  his  chair,  folded  his  arms,  cast  a 
discontented  glance  at  the  whitened  seams  of  the  sleeves,  and 
soon  seemed  lost  in  his  own  reflections.  The  painter  worked 
on  in  silence.  The  model,  whom  Gabriel's  wink  had  aroused, 
half-flattered,  half-indignant  for  a  moment,  lapsed  into  a  doze. 
Outside  the  window,  you  heard  the  song  of  a  canary — a  dingy, 
smoke-colored  canary — that  seemed  shedding  its  plumes,  for 
they  were  as  ragged  as  the  garments  of  its  master;  still  it  con- 
trived to  sing — trill-trill-trill-trill-trill,  as  blithely  as  if  free  in 
its  native  woods,  or  pampered  by  fair  hands  in  a  gilded  cage. 
The  bird  was  the  only  true  artist  there:  it  sang,  as  the  poet 
sings,  to  obey  its  nature  and  vent  its  heart.  Trill-trill-trillela- 
la-la-trill-trill,  went  the  song — louder,  gayer  than  usual,  for 
there  was  a  gleam  of  April  sunshine  struggling  over  the  roof- 
tops. The  song  at  length  roused  up  Gabriel;  he  turned  his 
chair  round,  laid  his  head  on  one  side,  listened,  and  looked 
curiously  at  the  bird. 

At  length,  an  idea  seemed  to  cross  him:  he  rose,  opened  the 
window,  drew  in  the  cage,  placed  it  on  the  chair,  then  took 
up  one  of  his  uncle's  pipes,  walked  to  the  fireplace,  and  thrust 
the  shank  of  the  pipe  into  the  bars.  When  it  was  red-hot  he 
took  it  out  by  the  bowl,  having  first  protected  his  hand  from 
the  heat  by  wrapping  round  it  his  handkerchief;  this  done,  he 
returned  to  the  cage.  His  movements  had  wakened  up  the 
dozing  model.  She  eyed  them  at  first  with  dull  curiosity,  then 
with  lively  suspicion ;  and  presently  starting  up  with  an  excla- 
mation, such  as  no  novelist  but  Fielding  dare  put  into  the 
mouth  of  a  female — much  less  a  nymph  of  such  renown 
as  Galatea  —  she  sprang  across  the  room,  well-nigh  upset- 


132  LUCRETIA. 

ting  easel  and  painter,  and  fastened  firm  hold  on  Gabriel's 
shoulders. 

"The  varment!"  she  cried  vehemently;  "the  good-for- 
nothing  varment!  If  it  had  been  a  jay,  or  a  nasty  raven,  well 
and  good!  But  a  poor  little  canary!" 

"Hoity-toity!  What  are  you  about,  nephew?  What's  the 
matter?"  said  Tom  Varney,  coming  up  to  the  strife.  And, 
indeed,  it  was  time,  for  Gabriel's  teeth  were  set  in  his  catlike 
jaws,  and  the  glowing  point  of  the  pipe-shank  was  within  an 
inch  of  the  cheek  of  the  model. 

"What's  the  matter?"  replied  Gabriel  sullenly;  "Why,  I 
was  only  going  to  try  a  little  experiment." 

"An  experiment?  Not  on  my  canary,  poor,  dear,  little 
thing!  The  hours  and  hours  that  creature  has  strained  its 
throat  to  say  'sing  and  be  merry,'  when  I  had  not  a  rap  in  my 
pocket!  It  would  have  made  a  stone  feel  to  hear  it." 

"But  I  think  I  can  make  it  sing  much  better  than  ever — 
only  just  let  me  try!  They  say,  that  if  you  put  out  the  eyes  of 
a  canary,  it —  Gabriel  was  not  allowed  to  conclude  his  sen- 
tence; for  here  rose  that  clamor  of  horror  and  indignation, 
from  both  painter  and  model,  which  usually  greets  the  an- 
nouncement of  every  philosophical  discovery, — at  least,  when 
about  to  be  practically  applied;  and  in  the  midst  of  the  hub- 
bub, the  poor  little  canary,  who  had  been  fluttering  about  the 
cage  to  escape  the  hand  of  the  benevolent  operator,  set  up  no 
longer  the  cheering  trill-trillela-la-trill,  but  a  scared  and  heart- 
breaking chirp — a  shrill,  terrified  twit-twit-twitter  twit. 

"Damn  the  bird!  Hold  your  tongues!"  cried  Gabriel  Var- 
ney, reluctantly  giving  way;  but  still  eyeing  the  bird  with  the 
scientific  regret  with  which  the  illustrious  Majendie  might  con- 
template a  dog  which  some  brute  of  a  master  refused  to  disem- 
bowel for  the  good  of  the  colics  of  mankind. 

The  model  seized  on  the  cage,  shut  the  door  of  the  wires, 
and  carried  it  off.  Tom  Varney  drained  the  rest  of  his  porter, 
and  wiped  his  forehead  with  the  sleeve  of  his  coat. 

"And  to  use  my  pipe  for  such  cruelty!  Boy,  boy,  I  could 
not  have  believed  it!  But  you  were  not  in  earnest — oh,  no, 
impossible!  Sukey,  my  love— Galatea,  the  divine — calm  thy 
breast;  Cupid  did  but  jest: 

'  Cupid  is  the  God  of  Laughter, 
Quip,  and  jest,  and  joke,  sir.'  " 

"If  you  don't  whip  the  little  wretch  within  an  inch  of  his 
life,  he'll  have  a  gallows  end  on't,"  replied  Galatea. 
"Go,  Cupid,  go  and  kiss  Galatea,  and  make  your  peace: 


LUCRETIA.  133 

'  Oh,  leave  a  kiss  within  the  cup, 
And  I'll  not  ask  for  wine  !  ' 

And  'tis  no  use  asking  for  wine,  or  for  gin  either — not  a  drop 
in  the  noggin!" 

All  this  while,  Gabriel,  disdaining  the  recommendations  held 
forth  to  him,  was  employed  in  brushing  his  jacket  with  a  very 
mangy-looking  brush;  and  when  he  had  completed  that  opera- 
tion, he  approached  his  uncle,  and  coolly  thrust  his  hands  into 
that  gentleman's  waistcoat-pockets. 

"Uncle,  what  have  you  done  with  those  seven  shillings?  I 
am  going  out  to  spend  the  day." 

"If  you  give  them  to  him,  Tom,  I'll  scratch  your  eyes  out," 
cried  the  model ;  "and  then  we'll  see  how  you'll  sing.  Whip 
him,  I  say — whip  him ! " 

But,  strange  to  say,  this  liberty  of  the  boy's  quite  re-opened 
the  heart  of  his  uncle — it  was  a  pleasure  to  him,  who  put  his 
hands  so  habitually  into  o^her  people's  pockets,  to  be  invested 
with  the  novel  grandeur  of  the  man  sponged  upon.  "That's 
right,  Cupid,  son  of  Cytherea;  all's  common  property  amongst 
friends.  Seven  shillings,  I  have  'em  not!  'They  now  are  five 
who  once  were  seven';  but  such  as  they  are,  we'll  share! 

'  Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize, 
Or  both  divide  the  crown.'  " 

"Crowns  bear  no  division,  my  uncle,"  said  Gabriel  dryly, 
and  he  pocketed  the  five  shillings.  Then,  having  first  secured 
his  escape,  by  gaining  the  threshold,  he  suddenly  seized  one  of 
the  rickety  chairs  by  its  leg,  and  regardless  of  the  gallantries  due 
to  the  sex,  sent  it  right  against  the  model,  who  was  shaking  her 
fist  at  him.  A  scream,  and  a  fall,  and  a  sharp  twit  from  the 
cage,  which  was  hurled  nearly  into  the  fireplace,  told  that  the  mis- 
sive had  taken  effect.  Gabriel  did  not  wait  for  the  probable 
reaction;  he  was  in  the  streets  in  an  instant. 

"This  wont  do,"  he  muttered  to  himself ;  "there  is  no  getting 
on  here.  Foolish,  drunken  vagabond ;  no  good  to  be  got  from 
him.  My  father  is  terrible,  but  he  will  make  his  way  in  the 
world.  Umph!  if  I  were  but  his  match — and  why  not?  I  am 
brave,  and  he  is  not.  There's  fun,  too,  in  danger." 

Thus  musing  he  took  his  way  to  Dalibard's  lodgings.  His 
father  was  at  home.  Now,  though  they  were  but  lodgings, 
and  the  street  not  in  fashion,  Olivur  Dalibard's  apartments 
had  an  air  of  refinement,  and  even  elegance,  that  contrasted 
both  the  wretched  squalor  of  the  abode  Gabriel  had  just  left, 
and  the  meanness  of  Dalibard's  former  quarters  in  London. 


134  LUCRETIA. 

The  change  seemed  to  imply  that  the  Provei^al  had  already 
made  some  way  in  the  world.  And,  truth  to  say,  at  all  times, 
even  in  the  lowest  ebb  of  his  fortunes,  there  was  that  inde- 
scribable neatness  and  formality  of  precision  about  all  the  ex- 
terior seemings  of  the  ci-devant  friend  of  the  prirn  Robespierre 
which  belong  to  those  in  whom  order  and  method  are  strongly 
developed — qualities  which  give  even  to  neediness  a  certain 
dignity.  As  the  room  and  its  owner  met  the  eye  of  Gabriel,  on 
whose  senses  all  externals  had  considerable  influence,  the  un- 
grateful young  ruffian  recalled  the  kind,  tattered,  slovenly  uncle, 
whose  purse  he  had  just  emptied,  without  one  feeling  milder 
than  disgust.  Olivier  Dalibard,  always  careful,  if  simple,  in  his 
dress,  with  his  brow  of  grave  intellectual  power,  and  his  mien 
imposing,  not  only  from  its  calm,  but  from  that  nameless  refine- 
ment which  rarely  fails  to  give  to  the  student  the  air  of  a 
gentleman — Olivier  Dalibard  he  might  dread,  he  might  even 
detest ;  but  he  was  not  ashamed  of  him. 

"I  said  I  would  visit  you,  sir,  if  you  would  permit  me,"  said 
Gabriel,  in  a  tone  of  respect,  not  unmingled  with  some  defi- 
ance, as  if  in  doubt  of  his  reception. 

The  father's  slow,  full  eye,  so  different  from  the  sidelong, 
furtive  glance  of  Lucretia,  rested  on  the  son,  as  if  to  penetrate 
his  very  heart. 

"You  look  pale  and  haggard,  child:  you  are  fast  losing  your 
health  and  beauty.  Good  gifts  these,  not  to  be  wasted  before 
they  can  be  duly  employed.  But  you  have  taken  your  choice. 
Be  an  artist — copy  Tom  Varney,  and  prosper." 

Gabriel  remained  silent,  with  his  eyes  on  the  floor. 

"You  come  in  time  for  my  farewell,"  resumed  Dalibard. 
"It  is  a  comfort,  at  least,  that  I  leave  your  youth  so  honorably 
protected.  I  am  about  to  return  to  my  country ;  my  career  is 
once  more  before  me!" 

"Your  country ;  to  Paris?" 

"There  are  fine  pictures  in  the  Louvre — a  good  place  to  in- 
spire an  artist ! " 

"You  go  alone,  father?" 

"You  forget,  young  gentleman,  you  disown  me  as  father!  Go 
alone!  I  thought  I  told  you  in  the  times  of  our  confidence 
that  I  should  marry  Lucretia  Clavering.  I  rarely  fail  in  my 
plans.  She  has  lost  Laughton,  it  is  true,  but  ten  thousand 
pounds  will  make  a  fair  commencement  to  fortune,  even  at 
Paris.  Well,  what  do  you  want  with  me,  worthy  godson  of 
Honore  Gabriel  Mirabeau?" 

"Sir,  if  you  will  let  me,  I  will  go  with  you/' 


LUCRETIA.  135 

Dalibard  shaded  his  brow  with  his  hand,  and  reflected  on  the 
filial  proposal.  On  the  one  hand,  it  might  be  convenient,  and 
would  certainly  be  economical  to  rid  himself  evermore  of  the 
mutinous  son  who  had  already  thrown  off  his  authority ;  on  the 
other  hand,  there  was  much  in  Gabriel,  mutinous  and  even 
menacing  as  he  had  lately  become,  that  promised  an  unscrupu- 
lous tool  or  a  sharp-witted  accomplice,  with  interests  that  every 
year  the  ready  youth  would  more  and  more  discover  were  bound 
up  in  his  plotting  father's.  This  last  consideration,  joined,  if 
not  to  affection  still  to  habit,  to  the  link  between  blood  and 
blood,  which  even  the  hardest  find  it  difficult  to  sever,  prevailed. 
He  extended  his  pale  hand  to  Gabriel,  and  said  gently: 

"I  will  take  you,  if  we  rightly  understand  each  other.  Once 
again  in  my  power,  I  might  constrain  you  to  my  will,  it  is  true. 
But  I  rather  confer  with  you  as  man  to  man  than  as  man  to 
boy." 

"It  is  the  best  way,"  said  Gabriel  firmly. 

"I  will  use  no  harshness,  inflict  no  punishment,  unless,  in- 
deed, amply  merited  by  stubborn  disobedience  or  wilful  deceit. 
But  if  I  meet  with  these,  better  rot  on  a  dunghill  than  come 
with  me!  I  ask  implicit  confidence  in  all  my  suggestions, 
prompt  submission  to  all  my  requests.  Grant  me  but  these, 
and  I  promise  to  consult  your  fortune  as  my  own ;  to  gratify 
your  tastes  as  far  as  my  means  will  allow ;  to  grudge  not  your 
pleasures;  and,  when  the  age  for  ambition  comes,  to  aid  your 
rise  if  I  rise  myself;  nay,  if  well  contented  with  you,  to  re- 
move the  blot  from  your  birth,  by  acknowledging  and  adopt- 
ing you  formally  as  my  son." 

"Agreed!  and  I  thank  you,"  said  Gabriel.  "And  Lucretia 
is  going?  Oh,  I  so  long  to  see  her!" 

"See  her — not  yet;  but  next  week." 

"Do  not  fear  that  I  should  let  out  about  the  letter.  I  should 
betray  myself  if  I  did,"  said  the  boy,  bluntly  betraying  his 
guess  at  his  father's  delay. 

The  evil  scholar  smiled. 

"You  will  do  well  to  keep  it  secret  for  your  own  sake;  for 
mine,  I  should  not  fear.  Gabriel,  go  back  now  to  your  master; 
you  do  right,  like  the  rats,  to  run  from  the  falling  house. 
Next  week  I  will  send  for  you,  Gabriel!" 

Not,  however,  back  to  the  studio  went  the  boy.  He  saun- 
tered leisurely  through  the  gayest  streets,  eyed  the  shops,  and 
the  equipages,  the  fair  women,  and  the  well-dressed  men — eyed 
with  envy,  and  longings,  and  visions  of  pomps  and  vanities  to 
come ;  then,  when  the  day  began  to  close,  he  sought  out  a 


136  LUCRETIA. 

young  painter,  the  wildest  and  maddest  of  the  crew  to  whom 
his  uncle  had  presented  their  future  comrade  and  rival,  and 
went  with  this  youth,  at  half-price,  to  the  theatre,  not  to  gaze 
on  the  actors  or  study  the  play,  but  to  stroll  in  the  saloon.  A 
supper  in  the  Finish  completed  the  void  in  his  pockets,  and 
concluded  his  day's  rank  experience  of  life.  By  the  gray 
dawn  he  stole  back  to  his  bed,  and  as  he  laid  himself  down,  he 
thought  with  avid  pleasure  of  Paris,  its  gay  gardens,  and  bril- 
liant shops,  and  crowded  streets ;  he  thought,  too,  of  his  father's 
calm  confidence  of  success;  of  the  triumph  that  already  had 
attended  his  wiles — a  confidence  and  a  triumph  which,  excit- 
ing his  reverence  and  rousing  his  emulation,  had  decided  his 
resolution.  He  thought,  too,  of  Lucretia,  with  something  of 
affection,  recalled  her  praises  and  bribes,  her  frequent  media- 
tion with  his  father,  and  felt  that  they  should  have  need  of  each 
other.  Oh,  no,  he  never  would  tell  her  of  the  snare  laid  at 
Guy's  Oak — never,  not  even  if  incensed  with  his  father!  An 
instinct  told  him  that  that  offence  could  never  be  forgiven,  and 
that,  henceforth,  Lucretia's  was  a  destiny  bound  up  in  his  own. 
He  thought,  too,  of  Dalibard's  warning  and  threat.  But,  with 
fear  itself,  came  a  strange  excitement  of  pleasure ;  to  grapple, 
if  necessary,  he  a  mere  child,  with  such  a  man!  His  heart 
swelled  at  the  thought.  So  at  last  he  fell  asleep,  and  dreamed 
that  he  saw  his  mother's  trunkless  face  dripping  gore,  and  frown- 
ing on  him;  dreamed  that  he  heard  her  say:  "Goest  thou  to  the 
scene  of  my  execution  only  to  fawn  upon  my  murderer?"  Then 
a  nightmare  of  horrors,  of  scaffolds,  and  executioners,  and 
grinning  mobs,  and  agonized  faces,  came  on  him,  dark,  con- 
fused, and  indistinct.  And  he  woke,  with  his  hair  standing  on 
end,  and  heard  below,  in  the  rising  sun,  the  merry  song  of  the 
poor  canary — trill-lill-lill,  trill-trill-lill-lill-la?  Did  he  feel  glad 
that  his  cruel  hand  had  been  stayed? 

EPILOGUE  TO  PART  THE  FIRST. 

IT  is  a  year  since  the  November  day  on  which  Lucretia 
Clavering  quitted  the  roof  of  Mr.  Fielden.  And  first  we  must 
recall  the  eye  of  the  reader  to  the  old-fashioned  terrace  at 
Laughton ;  the  jutting  porch,  the  quaint  balustrades,  the  broad, 
dark,  changeless  cedars  on  the  lawn  beyond.  The  day  is  clear 
and  mild,  for  November  in  the  country  is  often  a  gentle  month, 
On  that  terrace  walked  Charles  Vernon,  now  known  by  his  ne>* 
name  of  St.  John.  Is  it  the  change  of  name  that  has  sc* 
changed  the  person?  Can  the  wand  of  the  Herald's  Offica 


1<JCRETIA.  I3f 

have  filled  up  the  hollows  of  the  cheek,  and  replaced  by  elastic 
vigor  the  listless  languor  of  the  tread?  No;  there  is  another 
and  a  better  cause  for  that  'healthful  change.  Mr.  Vernon  St. 
John  is  not  alone — a  fair  companion  leans  on  his  arm.  See, 
she  pauses  to  press  closer  to  his  side,  gaze  on  his  face,  and 
whisper,  "We  did  well  to  have  hope  and  faith!" 

The  husband's  faith  had  not  been  so  unshaken  as  his  Mary's, 
and  a  slight  blush  passed  over  his  cheek  as  he  thought  of  his 
concession  to  Sir  Miles' s  wishes,  and  his  overtures  to  Lucretia 
Clavering.  Still  that  fault  had  been  fairly  acknowledged  to 
his  wife,  and  she  felt,  the  moment  she  had  spoken,  that  she  had 
committed  an  indiscretion ;  nevertheless,  with  an  arch  touch  of 
womanly  malice,  she  added  softly : 

"And  Miss  Clavering,  you  persist  in  saying,  was  not  really 
handsome?" 

"My  love,"  replied  the  husband  gravely,  "you  would  oblige 
me  by  not  recalling  the  very  painful  recollections  connected 
with  that  name.  Let  it  never  be  mentioned  in  this  house." 

Lady  Mary  bowed  her  graceful  head  in  submission;  she 
understood  Charles's  feelings.  For  though  he  had  not  shown 
her  Sir  Miles's  letter  and  its  enclosure,  he  had  communicated 
enough  to  account  for  the  unexpected  heritage,  and  to  lessen 
his  wife's  compassion  for  the  disappointed  heiress.  Neverthe- 
less, she  comprehended  that  her  husband  felt  an  uneasy  twinge 
at  the  idea  that  he  was  compelled  to  act  hardly  to  the  one 
whose  hopes  he  had  supplanted.  Lucretia's  banishment  from 
Laughton  was  a  just  humiliation,  but  it  humbled  a  generous 
heart  to  inflict  the  sentence.  Thus,  on  all  accounts,  the  re- 
membrance of  Lucretia  was  painful  and  unwelcome  to  the  suc- 
cessor of  Sir  Miles.  There  was  a  silence;  Lady  Mary  pressed 
her  husband's  hand. 

"It  is  strange,"  said  he,  giving  vent  to  his  thoughts  at  that 
tender  sign  of  sympathy  in  his  feeling;  "strange  that,  after  all, 
she  did  not  marry  Mainwaring,  but  fixed  her  choice  on  that 
supple  Frenchman.  But  she  has  settled  abroad  now,  perhaps 
for  life — a  great  relief  to  my  mind.  Yes,  let  us  never  recur 
to  her." 

"Fortunately,"  said  Lady  Mary,  with  some  hesitation,  "she 
does  not  seem  to  have  created  much  interest  here.  The  poor 
seldom  name  her  to  me,  and  our  neighbors  only  with  surprise 
at  her  marriage.  In  another  year  she  will  be  forgotten ! " 

Mr.  St.  John  sighed.  Perhaps  he  felt  how  much  more  easily 
he  had  been  forgotten,  were  he  the  banished  one,  Lucretia  the 
possessor!  His  light  nature,  however,  soon  escaped  from  all 


138  LUCRETIA. 

thoughts  and  sources  of  annoyance,  and  he  listened  with  com- 
placent attention  to  Lady  Mary's  gentle  plans  for  the  poor,  and 
the  children's  school,  and  the  cottages  that  ought  to  be  repaired, 
and  the  laborers  that  ought  to  be  employed.  For,  though  it 
may  seem  singular,  Vernon  St.  John,  insensibly  influenced  by  his 
wife's  meek  superiority,  and  corrected  by  her  pure  companion- 
ship, had  begun  to  feel  the  charm  of  innocent  occupations; 
more,  perhaps,  than  if  he  had  been  accustomed  to  the  larger 
and  loftier  excitements  of  life,  and  missed  that  stir  of  intellect 
which  is  the  element  of  those  who  have  warred  in  the  democ- 
racy of  letters,  or  contended  for  the  leadership  of  States.  He 
had  begun  already  to  think  that  the  country  was  no  such  exile 
after  all.  Naturally  benevolent,  he  had  taught  himself  to 
share  the  occupations  his  Mary  had  already  found  in  the  busy 
"luxury  of  doing  good,"  and  to  conceive  that  brotherhood  of 
charity  which  usually  unites  the  lord  of  the  village  with  its  poor. 

"I  think,  what  with  hunting  once  a  week  (I  will  not  venture 
more  till  my  pain  in  the  side  is  quite  gone),  and  with  the  help 
of  some  old  friends  at  Christmas,  we  can  get  through  the  win- 
ter very  well,  Mary." 

"Ah,  those  old  friends!  I  dread  them  more  than  the  hunt- 
ing!" 

"But  we'll  have  your  grave  father,  and  your  dear,  precise, 
excellent  mother,  to  keep  us  in  order.  And  if  I  sit  more  than 
half  an  hour  after  dinner,  the  old  butler  shall  pull  me  out  by 
the  ears.  Mary,  what  do  you  say  to  thinning  the  grove  yonder? 
We  shall  get  a  better  view  of  the  landscape  beyond.  No,  hang 
it!  dear  old  Sir  Miles  loved  his  trees  better  than  the  prospect — 
I  wont  lop  a  bough.  But  that  avenue  we  are  planting  will  be 
certainly  a  noble  improvement — " 

"Fifty  years  hence,  Charles!" 

"It  is  our  duty  to  think  of  posterity,"  answered  the  ci-devant 
spendthrift,  with  a  gravity  that  was  actually  pompous.  "But 
hark!  Is  that  two  o'clock?  Three,  by  Jove!  How  time  flies! 
And  my  new  bullocks  that  I  was  to  see  at  two!  Come  down  to 
the  farm,  that's  my  own  Mary.  Ah,  your  fine  ladies  are  not 
such  bad  housewives  after  all!" 

"And  your  fine  gentlemen — " 

.  "Capital  farmers!  I  had  no  idea  till  last  week  that  a  prize 
ox  was  so  interesting  an  animal.  One  lives  to  learn.  Put  me 
in  mind,  by  the  by,  to  write  to  Coke  about  his  sheep." 

"This  way,  dear  Charles;  we  can  go  round  by  the  village, 
and  see  poor  Ponto  and  Dash." 

The  tears  rushed  to  Mr.  St.  John's  eyes.     "If  poor  Sir  Miles 


LUCREtlA.  *39 

could  have  known  you!"  he  said,  with  a  sigh;  and,  though 
the  gardeners  were  at  work  on  the  lawn,  he  bowed  his  head, 
and  kissed  the  blushing  cheek  of  his  wife  as  heartily  as  if  he 
had  been  really  a  farmer. 

From  the  terrace  at  Laughton,  turn  to  the  humbler  abode 
of  our  old  friend  the  Vicar — the  same  day,  the  same  hour. 
Here  also  the  scene  is  without  doors:  we  are  in  the  garden  of 
the  vicarage ;  the  children  are  playing  at  hide  and  seek  amongst 
the  espaliers,  which  screen  the  winding  gravel  walks  from  the 
esculents  more  dear  to  Ceres  than  to  Flora.  The  vicar  is  seated 
in  his  little  parlor,  from  which  a  glazed  door  admits  into  the 
garden.  The  door  is  now  open,  and  the  good  man  has  paused 
from  his  work  (he  had  just  discovered  a  new  emendation  in  the 
first  chorus  of  the  Medea),  to  look  out  at  the  rosy  faces  that 
gleam  to  and  fro  across  the  scene.  His  wife,  with  a  basket  in 
her  hand,  is  standing  without  the  door,  but  a  little  aside,  not 
to  obstruct  the  view. 

"It  does  one's  heart  good  to  see  them,"  said  the  Vicar; 
"Little  dears!" 

"Yes,  they  ought  to  be  dear  at  this  time  of  the  year,"  ob- 
served Mrs.  Fielden,  who  was  absorbed  in  the  contents  of  the 
basket. 

"And  so  fresh!" 

"Fresh,  indeed!  How  different  from  London !  In  London 
they  were  not  fit  to  be  seen ;  as  old  as — I  am  sure  I  can't  guess 
how  old  they  were.  But  you  see  here  they  are  new  laid  every 
morning!" 

"My  dear!"  said  Mr.  Fielden,  opening  his  eyes;  "New  laid 
every  morning! " 

"Two  dozen  and  four." 

"Two  dozen  and  four!  What  on  earth  are  you  talking  about, 
Mrs.  Fielden?" 

"Why  the  eggs  to  be  sure,  my  love!" 

"Oh! "said  the  Vicar,  "two  dozen  and  four!  You  alarmed 
me  a  little;  'tis  of  no  consequence — only  my  foolish  mistake. 
Always  prudent  and  saving,  my  dear  Sarah ;  just  as  if  poor  Sir 
Miles  had  not  left  us  that  munificent  fortune,  I  may  call  it." 

"It  will  not  go  very  far  when  we  have  our  young  ones  to 
settle.  And  David  is  very  extravagant  already:  he  has  torn 
such  a  hole  in  his  jacket!" 

At  this  moment  up  the  gravel  walk  two  young  persons  came 
in  sight.  The  children  darted  across  them,  whooping  and 
laughing,  and  vanished  in  the  further  recess  of  the  garden. 

"All  is  for  the  best — blind  mortals  that  we  are.     All  is  for 


140  LUCRETIA. 

the  best!"  said  the  Vicar  musingly,  as  his  eyes  rested  upon 
the  approaching  pair. 

"Certainly,  my  love;  you  are  always  right,  and  it  is  wicked 
to  grumble.  Still,  if  you  saw  what  a  hole  it  was — past  patch- 
ing, If  ear!" 

"Look  round!"  said  Mr.  Fielden  benevolently.  "How  we 
grieved  for  them  both;  how  wroth  we  were  with  William! 
How  sad  for  Susan !  And  now  see  them — they  will  be  the 
better  man  and  wife  for  their  trial!" 

"Has  Susan  then  consented?  I  was  almost  afraid  she  never 
would  consent.  How  often  have  I  been  almost  angry  with  her, 
poor  lamb,  when  I  have  heard  her  accuse  herself  of  causing  her 
sister's  unhappiness,  and  declare  with  sobs  that  she  felt  it  a 
crime  to  think  of  William  Mainwaring  as  a  husband." 

"I  trust  I  have  reasoned  her  out  of  a  morbid  sensibility, 
which,  while  it  could  not  have  rendered  Lucretia  the  happier, 
must  have  ensured  the  wretchedness  of  herself  and  William. 
But  if  Lucretia  had  not  married,  and  so  forever  closed  the  door 
on  William's  repentance  (that  is,  supposing  he  did  repent),  I 
believe  poor  Susan  would  rather  have  died  of  a  broken  heart, 
than  have  given  her  hand  to  Mainwaring." 

"It  was  an  odd  marriage  of  that  proud  young  lady's,  after 
all,"  said  Mrs.  Fielden;  "so  much  older  than  her — a  foreigner, 
too!" 

"But  he  is  a  very  pleasant  man,  and  they  had  known  each 
other  so  long.  I  did  not,  however,  quite  like  a  sort  of  cun- 
ning he  showed,  when  I  came"  to  reflect  on  it,  in  bringing  Lu- 
cretia back  to  the  house ;  it  looks  as  if  he  had  laid  a  trap  for 
her  from  the  first." 

"Ten  thousand  pounds!  A  great  catch  fora  foreigner!" 
observed  Mrs.  Fielden,  with  the  shrewd  instinct  of  her  sex ; 
and  then  she  added,  in  the  spirit  of  a  prudent  sympathy  equal- 
ly characteristic:  "But  I  think  you  say  Mr.  Parchmount  per- 
suaded her  to  allow  half  to  be  settled  on  herself.  That  will  be 
a  hold  on  him." 

"A  bad  hold,  if  that  be  all,  Sarah.  There  is  a  better — he  is 
a  learned  man  and  a  scholar.  Scholars  are  naturally  domestic, 
and  make  good  husbands." 

"But  you  know  he  must  be  a  papist!"  said  Mrs.  Fielden. 

"Umph!"  muttered  the  Vicar  irresolutely. 

While  the  worthy  couple  were  thus  conversing,  Susan  and 
her  lover,  not  having  finished  their  conference,  had  turned 
back  through  the  winding  walk. 

"Indeed,"   said  William,  drawing  her  arm  closer  to  his  side, 


LUCRETIA.  i4l 

"these  scruples,  these  fears,  are  cruel  to  me  as  well  as  to  your- 
self. If  you  were  no  longer  existing,  I  could  be  nothing  to 
your  sister.  Nay,  even  were  she  not  married,  you  must  know 
enough  of  her  pride  to  be  assured  that  I  can  retain  no  place  in 
her  affections.  What  has  chanced  was  not  our  crime.  Per- 
haps Heaven  designed  to  save,  not  only  us,  but  herself,  from 
the  certain  misery  of  nuptials  so  inauspicious!" 

"If  she  would  but  answer  one  of  my  letters!"  sighed  Susan; 
"or  if  I  could  but  know  that  she  were  happy  and  contented!" 

"Your  letters  must  have  miscarried;  you  are  not  sure  even 
of  her  address.  Rely  upon  it  she  is  happy.  Do  you  think 
that  she  would  a  second  time  'have  stooped  beneath  her'  " — 
Mainwaring's  lip  writhed  as  he  repeated  that  phrase — "if  her 
feelings  had  not  been  involved?  I  would  not  wrong  your  sis- 
ter; I  shall  ever  feel  gratitude  for  the  past,  and  remorse  for 
my  own  shameful  weakness;  still  I  must  think  that  the  nature 
of  her  attachment  to  me  was  more  ardent  than  lasting." 

"Ah,  William,  how  can  you  know  her  heart?" 

"By  comparing  it  with  yours.  Oh,  there,  indeed,  I  may 
anchor  my  faith!  Susan,  we  were  formed  for  each  other! 
Our  natures  are  alike,  save  that  yours,  despite  its  surpassing 
sweetness,  has  greater  strength  in  its  simple  candor.  You  will 
be  my  guide  to  good.  Without  you  I  should  have  no  aim  in 
life,  no  courage  to  front  the  contests  of  this  world.  Ah,  this 
hand  trembles  still!" 

"William,  William,  I  cannot  repress  a  foreboding,  a  super- 
stition! At  night  I  am  haunted  with  that  pale  face,  as  I  saw 
it  last,  pale  with  suppressed  despair.  Oh,  if  ever  Lucretia 
could  have  need  of  us — need  of  our  services,  our  affections;  if 
we  could  but  repair  the  grief  we  have  caused  her!" 

Susan's  head  sank  on  her  lover's  shoulder.  She  had  said 
"need  of  us" — "need  of  our  services."  In  those  simple 
monosyllables  the  union  was  pledged,  the  identity  of  their  lots 
in  the  dark  urn  was  implied. 

From  this  scene  turn  again — the  slide  shifts  in  the  lantern — 
we  are  at  Paris.  In  the  ante-chamber  at  the  Tuileries  a  crowd 
of  expectant  courtiers  and  adventurers  gaze  upon  a  figure 
who  passes  with  modest  and  downcast  eyes  through  the  throng; 
he  has  just  left  the  closet  of  the  First  Consul. 

"Par    Dieu!"  said    B ,  "power,  like  misery,  makes  us 

acquainted  with  strange  bedfellows.  I  should  like  to  hear  what 
the  First  Consul  can  have  to  say  to  Olivier  Dalibard. " 

Fouche\  who  at  that  period  was  scheming  for  the  return  to 
Jiis  old  dignities  as  minister  of  police,  smiled  slightly,  and  an- 


142  LUCREi-fA. 

swered:  "In  a  time  when  the  air  is  filled  with  daggers,  one 
who  was  familiar  with  Robespierre  has  his  uses.  Olivier 
Dalibard  is  a  remarkable  man.  He  is  one  of  those  children  of 
the  Revolution  whom  that  great  mother  is  bound  to  save." 

"By  betraying  his  brethren?"  said  B dryly. 

"I  do  not  allow  the  inference.  The  simple  fact  is  that  Dali- 
bard has  spent  many  years  in  England;  he  has  married  an  Eng- 
glishwoman  of  birth  and  connections;  he  knows  well  the  Eng- 
lish language  and  English  people;  and  just  now,  when  the  First 
Consul  is  so  anxious  to  approfondir  the  popular  feelings  of  that 
strange  nation,  with  whose  government  he  is  compelled  to  go 
to  war,  he  may  naturally  have  much  to  say  to  so  acute  an  ob- 
server as  Olivier  Dalibard." 

"Um!"  said  B ;  "with  such  patronage,  Robespierre's 

friend  should  hold  his  head  somewhat  higher!" 

Meanwhile  Olivier  Dalibard,  crossing  the  gardens  of  the  pal- 
ace, took  his  way  to  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain.  There  was 
no  change  in  the  aspect  of  this  man;  the  same  meditative  tran- 
quillity characterized  his  downward  eyes  and  bended  brow; 
the  same  precise  simplicity  of  dress  which  had  pleased  the  prim 
taste  of  Robespierre  gave  decorum  to  his  slender,  stooping 
form.  No  expression  more  cheerful,  no  footstep  more  elastic, 
bespoke  the  exile's  return  to  his  native  land,  or  the  sanguine 
expectations  of  Intellect  restored  to  a  career.  Yet,  to  all  ap- 
pearance, the  prospects  of  Dalibard  were  bright  and  promis- 
ing. The  First  Consul  was  at  that  stage  of  his  greatness  when 
he  sought  to  employ  in  his  service  all  such  talent  as  the  Revo- 
lution had  made  manifest,  provided  only  that  it  was  not 
stained  with  notorious  bloodshed,  or  too  strongly  associated 
with  the  Jacobin  clubs.  His  quick  eye  seemed  to  have  discov- 
ered  already  the  abilities  of  Dalibard,  and  to  have  appreciated 
the  sagacity  and  knowledge  of  men  which  had  enabled  this 
subtle  person  to  obtain  the  friendship  of  Robespierre,  without 
sharing  in  his  crimes.  He  had  been  frequently  closeted  with 
Buonaparte;  he  was  in  the  declared  favor  of  Fouche,  who, 
though  not  at  that  period  at  the  head  of  the  police,  was  too 
necessary  amidst  the  dangers  of  the  time,  deepened  as  they 
were  by  the  rumors  of  some  terrible  and  profound  conspiracy, 
to  be  laid  aside,  as  the  First  Consul  had  at  one  moment  de- 
signed. One  man  alone,  of  those  high  in  the  State,  appeared 
to  distrust  Olivier  Dalibard — the  celebrated  Cambacdres.  But 
with  his  aid  the  Provencal  could  dispense.  What  was  the 
secret  of  Dalibard' s  power?  Was  it,  in  truth,  owing  solely  to 
his  native  talent,  and  his  acquired  experience,  especially  of 


LtfCkfctiA.  143 

England?  Was  it  by  honorable  means  that  he  had  won  the 
ear  of  the  First  Consul?  We  may  be  sure  of  the  contrary;  for 
it  is  a  striking  attribute  of  men  once  thoroughly  tainted  by  the 
indulgence  of  vicious  schemes  and  stratagems,  that  they  become 
wholly  blinded  to  those  plain  paths  of  ambition  which  common- 
sense  makes  manifest  to  ordinary  ability.  If  we  regard  narrowly 
the  lives  of  great  criminals,  we  are  often  very  much  startled  by  the 
extraordinary  acuteness,  the  profound  calculation,  the  patient 
meditative  energy  which  they  have  employed  upon  the  concep- 
tion and  execution  of  a  crime.  We  feel  inclined  to  think  that 
such  intellectual  power  would  have  commanded  great  distinc- 
tion, worthily  used  and  guided;  but  we  never  find  that  these 
great  criminals  seem  to  have  been  sensible  of  the  opportunities 
to  real  eminence  which  they  have  thrown  away.  Often  we  ob- 
serve that  there  have  been  before  them  vistas  into  worldly 
greatness,  which,  by  no  uncommon  prudence  and  exertion, 
would  have  conducted  honest  men,  half  as  clever,  to  fame  and 
power;  but,  with  a  strange  obliquity  of  vision,  they  appear  to 
have  looked  from  these  broad,  clear  avenues  into  some  dark, 
tangled  defile,  in  which,  by  the  subtlest  ingenuity,  and  through 
the  most  besetting  perils,  he  might  attain  at  last  to  the  success 
of  a  fraud,  or  the  enjoyment  of  a  vice.  In  crime  once  in- 
dulged, there  is  a  wonderful  fascination;  and  the  fascination  is, 
not  rarely,  great  in  proportion  to  the  intellect  of  the  criminal. 
There  is  always  hope  of  reform  for  a  dull,  uneducated,  stolid 
man,  led  by  accident  or  temptation  into  guilt;  but  where  a  man 
of  great  ability,  and  highly  educated,  besots  himself  in  the 
intoxication  of  dark  and  terrible  excitements,  takes  impure 
delight  in  tortuous  and  slimy  ways,  the  good  angel  abandons 
him  forever. 

Olivier  Dalibard  walked  musingly  on,  gained  a  house  in  one 
of  the  most  desolate  quarters  of  the  abandoned  Faubourg, 
mounted  the  spacious  stairs,  and  rang  at  the  door  of  an  attic 
next  the  roof.  After  some  moments,  the  door  was  slowly  and 
cautiously  opened,  and  two  small  fierce  eyes,  peering  through 
a  mass  of  black  tangled  curls,  gleamed  through  the  aperture. 
The  gaze  seemed  satisfactory. 

"Enter,  friend,"  said  the  inmate,  with  a  sort  of  complacent 
grunt;  and,  as  Dalibard  obeyed,  the  man  reclosed,  and  barred 
the  door. 

The  room  was  bare  to  beggary;  the  ceiling,  low  and  sloping, 
was  blackened  with  smoke.  A  wretched  bed,  two  chairs,  a 
table,  a  strong  chest,  a  small  cracked  looking-glass,  completed 
the  inventory.  The  dress  of  the  occupier  was  not  in  keeping 


144  LUCRETIA. 

with  the  chamber;  true  that  it  was  not  such  as  was  worn  by  the 
wealthier  classes,  but  it  betokened  no  sign  of  poverty.  A  blue 
coat,  with  high  collar,  and  half  of  military  fashion,  was  but- 
toned tight  over  a  chest  of  vast  girth;  the  nether  garments  were 
of  leather,  scrupulously  clean,  and  solid,  heavy  riding  boots 
came  half-way  up  the  thigh.  A  more  sturdy,  stalwart,  strong- 
built  knave  never  excited  the  admiration  which  physical  power 
always  has  a  right  to  command:  and  Dalibard  gazed  on  him 
with  envy.  The  pale  scholar  absolutely  sighed  as  he  thought 
what  an  auxiliary  to  his  own  scheming  mind  would  have  been 
so  tough  a  frame ! 

But  even  less  in  form  than  face  did  the  man  of  thews  and 
sinews  contrast  the  man  of  wile  and  craft.  Opposite  that  high 
forehead,  with  its  massive  development  of  organs,  scowled  the 
low  front  of  one  to  whom  thought  was  unfamiliar;  protuberant, 
indeed,  over  the  shaggy  brows,  where  phrenologists  place  the 
seats  of  practical  perception — strongly  marked  in  some  of  the 
brutes,  as  in  the  dog — but  almost  literally  devoid  of  those 
higher  organs,  by  which  we  reason,  and  imagine,  and  construct. 
But  in  rich  atonement  for  such  deficiency,  all  the  animal 
reigned  triumphant  in  the  immense  mass  and  width  of  the  skull 
behind.  And  as  the  hair,  long  before,  curled  in  close  rings  to 
the  nape  of  the  bull-like  neck,  you  saw  before  you  one  of  those 
useful  instruments  to  ambition  and  fraud,  which  recoil  at  no  dan- 
ger, comprehend  no  crime,  are  not  without  certain  good  quali- 
ties, under  virtuous  guidance,  for  they  have  the  fidelity,  the 
obedience,  the  stubborn  courage  of  the  animal;  but  which, 
under  evil  control,  turn  those  very  qualities  to  unsparing  evil — 
bull-dogs  to  rend  the  foe,  as  bull-dogs  to  defend  the  master. 

For  some  moments  the  two  men  gazed  silently  at  each  other. 
At  length,  Dalibard  said,  with  an  air  of  calm  superiority: 

"My  friend,  it  is  time  that  I  should  be  presented  to  the 
chiefs  of  your  party!" 

"Chiefs,  par  tons  les  diables!"  growled  the  other;  "we 
Chouans  are  all  chiefs,  when  it  comes  to  blows.  You  have 
seen  my  credentials;  you  know  that  I  am  a  man  to  be  trusted; 
what  more  do  you  need?" 

"For  myself  nothing;  but  my  friends  are  more  scrupulous. 
I  have  sounded,  as  I  promised,  the  heads  of  the  old  Jacobin 
party,  and  they  are  favorable.  This  upstart  soldier,  who  has 
suddenly  seized  in  his  iron  grasp  all  the  fruits  of  the  Revolution, 
is  as  hateful  to  them  as  to  you.  But,  que  voulez-vous,  mon  cher  ? 
men  are  men!  It  is  one  thing  to  destroy  Buonaparte;  it  is 
another  thing  to  restore  the  Bourbons.  How  can  the  Jacobin 


LUCRETIA.  145 

chiefs  depend  on  your  assurance,  or  my  own,  that  the  Bour- 
bons will  forget  the  old  offences,  and  reward  the  new  service? 
You  apprise  me,  so  do  your  credentials,  that  A.  prince  of  the 
blood  is  engaged  in  this  enterprise;  that  he  will  appear  at  the 
proper  season.  Put  me  in  direct  communication  with  this  rep- 
resentative of  the  Bourbons,  and  I  promise  in  return,  if  his  as- 
surances are  satisfactory,  that  you  shall  have  an  e~meute  to  be 
felt  from  Paris  to  Marseilles.  If  you  cannot  do  this,  I  am 
useless;  and  I  withdraw — " 

"Withdraw!  Garde  a  vous,  Monsieur  le  Savant!  No  man 
withdraws  alive  from  a  conspiracy  like  ours." 

We  have  said  before  that  Olivier  Dalibard  was  not  physically 
brave;  and  the  look  of  the  Chouan,  as  those  words  were  said, 
would  have  frozen  the  blood  of  many  a  bolder  man.  But  the 
habitual  hypocrisy  of  Dalibard  enabled  him  to  disguise  his  fear, 
and  he  replied,  dryly: 

'''Monsieur  le  Chouan,  it  is  not  by  threats  that  you  will  gain 
adherents  to  a  desperate  cause,  which,  on  the  contrary,  re- 
quires mild  words  and  flattering  inducements.  If  you  commit 
a  violence — a  murder — man  cher,  Paris  is  not  Bretagne;  we 
have  a  police;  you  will  be  discovered." 

"Ha,  ha!  What  then?  Do  you  think  I  fear  the  guillo- 
tine?" 

"For  yourself,  no;  but  for  your  leaders,  yes!  Tf  you  are 
discovered,  and  arrested  for  crime,  do  you  fancy  that  the  police 
will  not  recognize  the  right  arm  of  the  terrible  George  Cadou- 
dal?  That  they  will  not  guess  that  Cadoudal  is  at  Paris? 
That  Cadoudal  will  not  accompany  you  to  the  guillotine?" 

The  Chouan's  face  fell.  Olivier  watched  him,  and  pursued 
his  advantage. 

"I  asked  you  to  introduce  to  me  this  shadow  of  a  prince, 
under  which  you  would  march  to  a  counter-revolution.  But 
I  will  be  more  easily  contented.  Present  me  to  George 
Cadoudal,  the  hero  of  Morbihan;  he  is  a  man  in  whom  I  can 
trust,  and  with  whom  I  can  deal.  What!  you  hesitate?  How 
do  you  suppose  enterprises  of  this  nature  can  be  carried  on? 
If,  from  fear  and  distrust  of  each  other,  the  man  you  would 
employ  cannot  meet  the  chief  who  directs  him,  there  will  be 
delay,  confusion,  panic;  and  you  will  all  perish  by  the  execu- 
tioner. And  for  me,  Pierre  Guillot,  consider  my  position:  I 
am  in  some  favor  with  the  First  Consul;  I  have  a  station  of 
respectability;  a  career  lies  before  me.  Can  you  think  that  I 
will  hazard  these,  with  my  head  to  boot,  like  a  rash  child? 
Do  you  suppose  that,  in  entering  into  this  terrible  contest,  I 


146  LUCRETIA. 

would  consent  to  treat  only  with  subordinates?  Do  not  de- 
ceive yourself.  Again,  I  say,  tell  your  employers  that  they 
must  confer  with  me  directly,  or  je  m'en  lave  les  mains." 

"I  will  repeat  what  you  say,"  answered  Guillot  sullenly. 
"Is  this  all?" 

"All  for  the  present,"  said  Dalibard,  slowly  drawing  on  his 
gloves,  and  retreating  towards  the  door.  The  Chouan  watched 
him  with  a  suspicious  and  sinister  eye;  and  as  the  Provencal's 
hand  was  on  the  latch,  he  laid  his  own  rough  grasp  on  Dali- 
bard's  shoulder: 

"I  know  not  how  it  is,  Monsieur  Dalibard,  but  I  mistrust 
you." 

"Distrust  is  natural  and  prudent  to  all  who  conspire,"  re- 
plied the  scholar  quietly.  "I  do  not  ask  you  to  confide  in 
me:  your  employers  bade  you  seek  me;  I  have  mentioned  my 
conditions;  let  them  decide." 

"You  carry  it  off  well,  Monsieur  Dalibard.  And  I  am  under 
a  solemn  oath,  which  poor  George  made  me  take,  knowing  me 
to  be  a  hot-headed,  honest  fellow — mauvaise  tete,  if  you  will; 
that  I  will  keep  my  hand  off  pistol  and  knife  upon  mere  suspi- 
cion; that  nothing  less  than  his  word  or  than  clear  and  positive 
proof  of  treachery  shall  put  me  out  of  good  humor  and  into 
warm  blood.  But  bear  this  with  you,  Monsieur  Dalibard,  if  I 
once  discover  that  you  use  our  secrets  to  betray  them;  should 
George  see  you,  and  one  hair  of  his  head  come  to  injury 
through  your  hands,  I  will  wring  your  neck  as  a  housewife 
wrings  a  pullet's." 

"I  don't  doubt  your  strength  or  your  ferocity,  Pierre  Guillot ; 
but  my  neck  will  be  safe ;  you  have  enough  to  do  to  take  care 
of  your  own — au  revvtr." 

With  a  tone  and  look  of  calm  and  fearless  irony,  the  scholar 
thus  spoke  and  left  the  room ;  but  when  he  was  on  the  stairs, 
he  paused,  and  caught  at  the  balustrade;  the  sickness  as  of 
terror  at  some  danger  past,  or  to  be,  came  over  him ;  and  this 
contest  between  the  sell-command,  or  simulation,  which  be- 
longs to  moral  courage,  and  the  feebleness  of  natural  and  con- 
stitutional cowardice,  would  have  been  sublime  if  shown  in  a 
noble  cause.  In  one  so  corrupt,  it  but  betrayed  a  nature  doub- 
ly formidable;  for  treachery  and  murder  hatch  their  brood 
amidst  the  folds  of  a  hypocrite's  cowardice. 

While  thus  the  interview  between  Dalibard  and  the  conspira- 
tor,— we  must  bestow  a  glance  upon  the  Provencal's  home. 

In  an  apartment  in  one  of  the  principal  streets,  between  the 
Boulevards  and  the  Rue  St.  Honore,  a  boy  and  a  woman  sate 


LUCRETIA.  147 

side  by  side,  conversing  in  whispers.  The  boy  was  Gabriel 
Varney,  the  woman  Lucretia  Dalibard.  The  apartment  was 
furnished  in  the  then  modern  taste  which  affected  classical 
forms ;  and  though  not  without  a  certain  elegance,  had  some- 
thing meagre  and  comfortless  in  its  splendid  tripods  and  thin- 
legged  chairs.  There  was  in  the  apartment  that  air  which  be- 
speaks the  struggle  for  appearances—  that  struggle  familiar  with 
those  of  limited  income,  and  vain  aspirings,  who  want  the  taste 
which  smoothes  all  inequalities,  and  gives  a  smile  to  home;  that 
taste  which  affection  seems  to  prompt,  if  not  to  create ;  which 
shows  itself  in  a  thousand  nameless,  costless  trifles,  each  a 
grace.  No  sign  was  there  of  the  household  cares  or  industry 
of  women.  No  flowers,  no  music,  no  embroidery  frame,  no 
work-table.  Lucretia  had  none  of  the  sweet  feminine  habits 
which  betray  so  lovelily  the  whereabouts  of  women.  All  was 
formal  and  precise,  like  rooms  which  we  enter  and  leave,  not 
those  in  which  we  settle  and  dwell. 

Lucretia  herself  is  changed :  her  air  is  more  assured,  her  com- 
plexion more  pale,  the  evil  character  of  her  mouth  more  firm 
and  pronounced. 

Gabriel,  still  a  mere  boy  in  years,  has  a  premature  look  of 
man.  The  down  shades  his  lips.  His  dress,  though  showy 
and  theatrical,  is  no  longer  that  of  boyhood.  His  rounded 
cheek  has  grown  thin,  as  with  the  care  and  thought  which  beset 
the  anxious  step  of  youth  on  entering  into  life. 

Both,  as  before  remarked,  spoke  in  whispers ;  both  from  time 
to  time  glanced  fearfully  at  the  door ;  both  felt  that  they  be- 
longed to  a  hearth  round  which  smile  not  the  jocund  graces 
of  trust  and  love,  and  the  heart's  open  ease. 

"But,"  said  Gabriel;  "But  if  you  would  be  safe,  my  father 
must  have  no  secrets  hid  from  you." 

"I  do  not  know  that  he  has.  He  speaks  to  me  frankly  of  his 
hopes;  of  the  share  he  has  in  the  discovery  of  the  plot  against 
the  First  Consul;  of  his  interviews  with  Pierre  Guillot,  the 
Breton." 

"Ah,  because  there  your  courage  supports  him,  and  your 
acuteness  assists  his  own.  Such  secrets  belong  to  his  public 
life — his  political  schemes;  with  those  he  will  trust  you.  It  is 
his  private  life — his  private  projects  you  must  know." 

"But  what  does  he  conceal  from  me?  Apart  from  politics, 
his  whole  mind  seems  bent  on  the  very  natural  object  of  secur- 
ing the  intimacy  with  his  rich  cousin,  Monsieur  Bellanger,  from 
whom  he  has  a  right  to  expect  so  large  an  inheritance." 

"Bellanger  is  rich,  but  he  is  not  much  older  than  my  father." 


148  LUCRETIA. 

"He  has  bad  health." 

"No,"  said  Gabriel,  with  a  downcast  eye  and  a  strange 
smile,  "he  has  not  bad  health,  but  he  may  not  be  long  lived." 

"How  do  you  mean?"  asked  Lucretia,  sinking  her  voice  into 
a  still  lower  whisper,  while  a  shudder,  she  scarce  knew  why, 
passed  over  her  frame. 

"What  does  my  father  do,"  resumed  Gabriel,  "in  that  room 
at  the  top  of  the  house?  Does  he  tell  you  that  secret?" 

"He  makes  experiments  in  chemistry.  You  know  that  that 
was  always  his  favorite  study.  You  smile  again !  Gabriel,  do 
not  smile  so;  it  appals  me.  Do  you  think  there  is  some  mys- 
tery in  that  chamber?" 

"It  matters  not  what  we  think,  belle  mere,  it  matters  much 
what  we  know.  If  I  were  you,  I  would  know  what  is  in  that 
chamber.  I  repeat,  to  be  safe,  you  must  have  all  his  secrets 
or  none.  Hush,  that  is  his  step!" 

The  door  handle  turned  noiselessly,  and  Olivier  entered. 
His  look  fell  on  his  son's  face,  which  betrayed  only  apparent 
surprise  at  his  unexpected  return.  He  then  glanced  at  Lucre- 
tia's,  which  was,  as  usual,  cold  and  impenetrable. 

"Gabriel,"  said  Dalibard  gently,  "I  have  come  in  for  you. 
I  have  promised  to  take  you  to  spend  the  day  at  Monsieur 
Bellanger's;  you  are  a  great  favorite  with  Madame.  Come, 
my  boy.  I  shall  be  back  soon,  Lucretia.  I  shall  but  drop  in 
to  leave  Gabriel  at  my  cousin's." 

Gabriel  rose  cheerfully,  as  if  only  alive  to  the  expectation  of 
the  bonbons  and  compliments  he  received  habitually  from  Mad- 
ame Bellanger. 

"And  you  can  take  your  drawing  implements  with  you," 
continued  Dalibard.  "This  good  Monsieur  Bellanger  has 
given  you  permission  to  copy  his  Poussin." 

"His  Poussin!  Ah,  that  is  placed  in  his  bedroom,*  is  it 
not?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Dalibard  briefly.  Gabriel  lifted  his  sharp 
bright  eyes  to  his  father's  face.  Dalibard  turned  away. 

"Come!"  he  said,  with  some  impatience;  and  the  boy  took 
up  his  hat. 

In  another  minute,  Lucretia  was  alone. 

Alone,  in  an  English  home,  is  a  word  implying  no  dreary 
solitude  to  an  accomplished  woman;  but  alone  in  that  foreign 
land;  alone  in  those  half-furnished,  desolate  apartments — few 
books,  no  musical  instruments,  no  companions  during  the  day 

*  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  observe  that  bed-chambers  in  Paris,  when  forming  part  of  the 
suite  of  reception  room?   are  often  decorated  no  less  elaborately  than  the  other  apartments. 


LUCRETIA.  149 

to  drop  in — that  loneliness  was  wearing.  And  that  mind  so 
morbidly  active!  In  the  old  Scottish  legend  the  Spirit  that 
serves  the  wizard  must  be  kept  constantly  employed;  suspend 
its  work  for  a  moment,  and  it  rends  the  enchanter.  It  is  so 
with  minds  that  crave  for  excitement,  and  live  without  relief 
of  heart  and  affection,  on  the  hard  tasks  of  the  intellect. 

Lucretia  mused  over  Gabriel's  words  and  warning:  "To  be 
safe,  you  must  know  all  his  secrets  or  none."  What  was  the 
secret  which  Dalibard  had  not  communicated  to  her;? 

She  rose,  stole  up  the  cold,  cheerless  stairs,  and  ascended  to 
the  attic  which  Dalibard  had  lately  hired.  It  was  locked;  and 
she  observed  that  the  lock  was  small — so  small,  that  the  key 
might  be  worn  in  a  ring.  She  descended  and  entered  her  hus- 
band's usual  cabinet,  which  adjoined  the  sitting-room.  All  the 
books  which  the  house  contained  were  there;  a  few  works  on 
metaphysics — Spinosa  in  especial — the  great  Italian  histories, 
some  of  statistics,  many  on  physical  and  mechanical  philosophy, 
and  one  or  two  works  of  biography  and  memoirs;  no  light  litera- 
ture, that  grace  and  flower  of  human  culture,  that  best  philos- 
ophy of  all,  humanizing  us  with  gentle  art,  making  us  wise 
through  the  humors,  elevated  through  the  passions,  tender  in 
the  affections  of  our  kind!  She  took  out  one  of  the  volumes 
that  seemed  less  arid  than  the  rest,  for  she  was  weary  of  her 
own  thoughts,  and  began  to  read.  To  her  surprise,  the  first 
passage  she  opened  was  singularly  interesting,  though  the  title 
was  nothing  more  seductive  than  the  "Life  of  a  Physician  of 
Padua,  in  the  Sixteenth  Century."  It  related  to  that  singular 
epoch  of  terror  in  Italy,  when  some  mysterious  disease,  vary- 
ing in  a  thousand  symptoms,  baffled  all  remedy,  and  long  de- 
fied all  conjecture — a  disease  attacking  chiefly  the  heads  of 
families,  father  and  husband,  rarely  women.  In  one  city  seven 
hundred  husbands  perished,  but  not  one  wife !  The  disease  was 
poison.  The  hero  of  the  memoir  was  one  of  the  earlier  dis- 
coverers of  the  true  cause  of  this  household  epidemic.  He  had 
been  a  chief  authority  in  a  commission  of  inquiry.  Startling 
were  the  details  given  in  the  work;  the  anecdotes,  the  histories, 
the  astonishing  craft,  brought  daily  to  bear  on  the  victim,  the 
wondrous  perfidy  of  the  subtle  means,  the  variation  of  the  cer- 
tain murder — here  swift  as  epilepsy,  there  slow  and  wasting  as 
long  decline — the  lecture  was  absorbing;  and  absorbed  in  the 
book  Lucretia  still  was,  when  she  heard  Dalibard's  voice  be- 
hind; he  was  looking  over  her  shoulder. 

"A  strange  selection  for  so  fair  a  student!  Enfant,  play  not 
with  such  weapons!" 


150  LUCRETIA. 

"But  is  this  all  true?" 

"True,  though  scarce  a  fragment  of  the  truth.  The  physi- 
cian was  a  sorry  chemist,  and  a  worse  philosopher.  He  blun- 
dered in  his  analysis  of  the  means;  and,  if  I  remember  rightly, 
he  whines  like  a  priest  at  the  motives;  for  see  you  not  what  was 
really  the  cause  of  this  spreading  pestilence.  It  was  the  Satur- 
nalia of  the  Weak;  a  burst  of  mocking  license  against  the 
Strong;  it  was  more;  it  was  the  innate  force  of  the  individual 
waging  war  against  the  many." 

"I  do  not  understand  you." 

"No!  In  that  age,  husbands  were,  indeed,  lords  of  the 
household:  they  married  mere  children  for  their  lands;  they 
neglected  and  betrayed  them;  they  were  inexorable  if  the  wife 
committed  the  faults  set  before  her  example.  Suddenly  the 
wife  found  herself  armed  against  her  tyrant.  His  life  was  in 
her  hands.  So  the  weak  had  no  mercy  on  the  strong!  But 
man,  too,  was  then,  even  more  than  now,  a  lonely  wrestler  in 
a  crowded  arena.  Brute  force  alone  gave  him  distinction  in 
courts;  wealth  alone  brought  him  justice  in  the  halls,  or  gave 
him  safety  in  his  home.  Suddenly,  the  frail,  puny  man  saw 
that  he  could  reach  the  mortal  part  of  his  giant  foe.  The  noise- 
less sling  was  in  his  hand — it  smote  Goliath  from  afar.  Sud- 
denly, the  poor  man,  ground  to  the  dust,  spat  upon  by  con- 
tempt, saw  through  the  crowd  of  richer  kinsmen,  who  shunned 
and  bade  him  rot — saw  those  whose  death  made  him  heir  to 
lordship,  and  gold,  and  palaces,  and  power,  and  esteem !  As 
a  worm  through  a  wardrobe,  that  man  ate  through  velvet  and 
ermine,  and  gnawed  out  the  hearts  that  beat  in  his  way.  No! 
A  great  intellect  can  comprehend  these  criminals,  and  account 
for  the  crime.  It  is  a  mighty  thing  to  feel  in  one's  self  that 
one  is  an  army — more  than  an  army!  What  thousands  and 
millions  of  men,  with  trumpet  and  banner,  and  under  the  sanc- 
tion of  glory,  strive  to  do — destroy  a  foe,  that,  with  little  more 
than  an  effort  of  the  will — with  a  drop,  a  grain,  for  all  his  arse- 
nal— one  man  can  do!" 

There  was  a  horrible  enthusiasm  about  this  reasoning  devil 
as  he  spoke  thus;  his  crest  rose,  his  breast  expanded.  That 
animation  which  a  noble  thought  gives  to  generous  hearts  kin- 
dled in  the  face  of  the  apologist  for  the  darkest  and  basest  of 
human  crimes.  Lucretia  shuddered;  but  her  gloomy  imagina- 
tion was  spelled;  there  was  an  interest  mingled  with  her  terror. 

"Hush,  you  appal  me,"  she  said  at  last,  timidly.  "But, 
happily,  this  fearful  art  exists  no  more  to  tempt  and  destroy?" 

"As  a  mere  philosophical  discovery,  it  might  be  amusing  to 


LtfCRETlA.  15t 

a  chemist  to  learn  exactly  what  were  the  compounds  of  those 
ancient  poisons,"  said  Dalibard,  not  directly  answering  the  im- 
plied question.  "Portions  of  the  art  are  indeed  lost,  unless, 
as  I  suspect,  there  is  much  credulous  exaggeration  in  the  ac- 
counts transmitted  to  us.  To  kill  by  a  flower,  a  pair  of  gloves,  a 
soap  ball — kill  by  means  which  elude  all  possible  suspicion — is 
it  credible?  What  say  you?  An  amusing  research,  indeed, 
if  one  had  leisure!  But  enough  of  this  now;  it  grows  late. 

We  dine  with  Monsieur  de .  He  wishes  to  let  his  hotel. 

Why,  Lucretia,  if  we  knew  a  little  of  this  old  art,  Par  Dieu  ! 
we  could  soon  hire  the  hotel !  Well,  well,  perhaps  we  may 
survive  my  cousin,  Jean  Bellanger!" 

Three  days  afterwards  Lucretia  stood  by  her  husband's  side 
in  the  secret  chamber.  From  the  hour  when  she  left  it,  a 
change  was  perceptible  in  her  countenance,  which  gradually  re- 
moved from  it  the  character  of  youth.  Paler  the  cheek  could 
scarce  become,  nor  more  cold  the  discontented,  restless  eye. 
But  it  was  as  if  some  great  care  had  settled  on  her  brow,  and 
contracted  yet  more  the  stern  outline  of  the  lips.  Gabriel 
noted  the  alternation;  but  he  did  not  attempt  to  win  her  confi- 
dence. He  was  occupied  rather  in  considering,  first,  if  it  were 
well  for  him  to  sound  deeper  into  the  mystery  he  suspected; 
and,  secondly,  to  what  extent,  and  on  what  terms,  it  became 
his  interest  to  aid  the  designs  in  which,  by  Dalibard's  hints 
and  kindly  treatment,  he  foresaw  that  he  was  meant  to  partici- 
pate. 

A  word  now  on  the  rich  kinsman  of  the  Dalibards:  Jean 
Bellanger  had  been  one  of  those  prudent  republicans-  who  had 
put  the  Revolution  to  profit.  By  birth  a  Marseillais,  he  had 
settled  in  Paris,  as  an  tpicier,  about  the  year  1785,  and  had 
distinguished  himself  by  the  adaptability  and  finesse  which  be- 
come those  who  fish  in  such  troubled  waters.  He  had  sided 
with  Mirabeau,  next  with  Vergniaud,  and  the  Girondins.  These 
he  forsook  in  time  for  Danton,  whose  facile  corruptibility  made 
him  a  seductive  patron.  He  was  a  large  purchaser  in  the  sale 
of  the  emigrant  property;  he  obtained  a  contract  for  the  supply 
of  the  army  in  the  Netherlands;  he  abandoned  Danton  as  he 
had  abandoned  the  Girondins,  but  without  taking  any  active 
part  in  the  after  proceedings  of  the  Jacobins.  His  next  con- 
nection was  with  Tallien  and  Barras,  and  he  enriched  himself 
yet  more  under  the  Directory  than  he  had  done  in  the  earlier 
stages  of  the  Revolution.  Under  cover  of  an  appearance  of 
bonhomie  and  good  humor,  a  frank  laugh  and  open  counte- 
nance. Jean  Bellanger  had  always  retained  general  popularity 


152  LUCREtiA. 

and  good-will;  and  was  one  of  those  whom  the  policy  of  the 
First  Consul  led  him  to  conciliate.  He  had  long  since  retired 
from  the  more  vulgar  departments  of  trade,  but  continued  to 
flourish  as  an  army  contractor.  He  had  a  large  hotel  and  a 
splendid  establishment.  He  was  one  of  the  great  capitalists  of 
Paris.  The  relaionship  .between  Dalibard  and  Bellanger  was 
not  very  close,  it  was  that  of  cousins  twice  removed;  and  dur- 
ing Dalibard's  previous  residence  at  Paris,  each  embracing  dif- 
ferent parties,  and  each  eager  in  his  career,  the  blood-tie  between 
them  had  not  been  much  thought  of,  though  they  were  good 
friends,  and  each  respected  the  other  for  the  discretion  with 
which  he  had  kept  aloof  from  the  more  sanguinary  excesses  of 
the  time.  As  Bellanger  was  not  many  years  older  than  Dali- 
bard; as  the  former  had  just  married  in  the  year  1791,  and  had 
naturally  before  him  the  prospect  of  a  family;  as  his  fortunes 
at  that  time,  though  rising,  were  unconfirmed,  and  as  some 
nearer  relations  stood  between  them,  in  the  shape  of  two  prom- 
ising sturdy  nephews,  Dalibard  had  not  then  calculated  on  any 
inheritance  from  his  cousin.  On  his  return,  circumstances 
were  widely  altered:  Bellanger  had  been  married  some  years, 
and  no  issue  had  blessed  his  nuptials.  His  nephews,  draughted 
into  the  conscription,  had  perished  in  Egypt.  Dalibard  ap- 
parently became  his  nearest  relative. 

To  avarice  or  to  worldly  ambition,  there  was,  undoubtedly, 
something  very  dazzling  in  the  prospect  thus  opened  to  the  eyes 
of  Olivier  Dalibard.  The  contractor's  splendid  mode  of  living, 
vying  with  that  of  the  fermier  general  of  old;  the  colossal  masses 
of  capital,  by  which  he  backed  and  supported  speculations  that 
varied  with  an  ingenuity  rendered  practical  and  profound  by 
experience,  inflamed  into  fever  the  morbid  restlessness  of  fancy 
and  intellect  which  characterized  the  evil  scholar.  For  that 
restlessness  seemed  to  supply  to  his  nature  vices  not  constitu- 
tional to  it.  Dalibard  had  not  the  avarice  that  belongs  either 
to  a  miser  or  a  spendthrift.  In  his  youth,  his  books  and  the 
simple  desires  of  an  abstract  student  sufficed  to  his  wants,  and 
a  habit  of  method  and  order,  a  mechanical  calculation  which 
accompanied  all  his  acts  from  the  least  to  the  greatest,  preserved 
him,  even  when  most  poor,  from  neediness  and  want.  Nor  was 
he  by  nature  vain  and  ostentatious;  those  infirmities  accompany 
a  larger  and  more  luxuriant  nature.  His  philosophy  rather 
despised,  than  inclined  to,  show.  Yet  since  to  plot  and  to 
scheme  made  his  sole  amusement,  his  absorbing  excitement,  so 
a  man  wrapped  in  himself,  and  with  no  generous  ends  in  view, 
has  little  to  plot  or  to  scheme  for,  but  objects  of  worldly  ag-. 


LXJCRETIA.  153 

grandizement.  In  this,  Dalibard  resembled  one  whom  the  in- 
toxication of  gambling  has  mastered,  who  neither  wants,  nor 
greatly  prizes,  the  stake,  but  who  has  grown  wedded  to  the 
venture  for  it.  It  was  a  madness  like  that  of  a  certain  rich 
nobleman  in  our  country,  who,  with  more  money  than  he  could 
spend,  and  with  a  skill,  in  all  games  where  skill  enters,  that 
would  have  secured  him  success  of  itself,  having  learned  the 
art  of  cheating  could  not  resist  its  indulgence.  No  hazard,  no 
warning,  could  restrain  him;  cheat  he  must;  the  propensity 
became  iron-strong  as  a  Greek  destiny. 

That  the  possible  chance  of  an  inheritance  so  magnificent 
should  dazzle  Lucretia  and  Gabriel  was  yet  more  natural;  for 
in  them  it  appealed  to  more  direct  and  eloquent,  though  not 
more  powerful,  propensities.  Gabriel  had  every  vice  which 
the  greed  of  gain  most  irritates  and  excites.  Intense  covetous- 
ness  lay  at  the  core  of  his  heart;  he  had  the  sensual  temper- 
ament which  yearns  for  every  enjoyment,  and  takes  pleasure  in 
every  pomp  and  show  of  life.  Lucretia,  with  a  hardness  of  mind 
that  disdained  luxury;  and  a  certain  grandeur  (if  such  a  word 
may  be  applied  to  one  so  perverted)  that  was  incompatible 
with  the  sordid  infirmities  of  the  miser,  had  a  determined  and 
insatible  ambition  to  which  gold  was  a  necessary  instrument. 
Wedded  to  one  she  loved,  like  Mainwaring,  the  ambition,  as 
we  have  said  in  a  former  chapter,  could  have  lived  in  another, 
and  become  devoted  to  intellectual  efforts,  in  the  nobler  desire 
for  power  based  on  fame  and  genius.  But  now  she  had  the 
gloomy  cravings  of  one  fallen,  and  the  uneasy  desire  to  restore 
herself  to  a  lost  position;  she  fed  as  an  aliment  upon  scorn  to 
bitterness  of  all  beings  and  all  things  around  her.  She  was 
gnawed  by  that  false  fever  which  riots  in  those  who  seek  by 
outward  seemings  and  distinctions  to  console  themselves  for 
the  want  of  their  own  self-esteem;  of  who,  despising  the  world 
with  which  they  are  brought  in  contact,  sigh  for  those  worldly 
advantages  which  alone  justify  to  the  world  itself  their  contempt. 

To  these  diseased  infirmities  of  vanity  or  pride,  whether  ex- 
hibited in  Gabriel  or  Lucretia,  Dalibard  administered  without 
apparent  effort,  not  only  by  his  conversation,  but  his  habits  of 
life.  He  mixed  with  those  much  wealthier  than  himself,  but 
not  better  born;  those  who,  in  the  hot  and  fierce  ferment  of 
that  new  society,  were  rising  fast  into  new  aristocracy;  fortu- 
nate soldiers,  daring  speculators,  plunderers  of  many  an  argosy 
that  had  been  wrecked  in  the  Great  Storm.  Every  one  about 
them  was  actuated  by  the  keen  desire  "to  make  a  fortune"  :  the 
desire  was  contagious.  They  were  not  absolutely  poor  in  the 


154  LUCRETIA. 

proper  sense  of  the  word  poverty,  with  Dalibard's  annuity  and 
the  interest  of  Lucretia's  fortune,  but  they  were  poor  compared 
to  those  with  whom  they  associated — poor  enough  for  discon- 
tent. Thus,  the  image  of  the  mighty  wealth  from  which,  per- 
haps, but  a  single  life  divided  them,  became  horribly  haunting. 
To  Gabriel's  sensual  vision  the  image  presented  itself  in  the 
shape  of  unlimited  pleasure  and  prodigal  riot;  to  Lucretia  it 
wore  the  solemn  majesty  of  power;  to  Dalibard  himself  it  was 
but  the  Eureka  of  a  calculation,  the  palpable  reward  of  wile, 
and  scheme,  and  dexterous  combinations.  The  devil  had 
temptations  suited  to  each.  Meanwhile,  the  Dalibards  were 
more  and  more  with  the  Bellangers.  Olivier  glided  in  to  talk 
of  the  chances  and  changes  of  the  state  and  the  market.  Lu- 
cretia sate  for  hours,  listening  mutely  to  the  contractor's  boasts 
of  past  frauds,  or  submitting  to  the  martyrdom  of  his  victorious 
games  at  tric-trac.  Gabriel,  a  spoiled  darling,  copied  the  pic- 
tures on  the  walls,  complimented  Madame,  flattered  Monsieur, 
and  fawned  on  both  for  trinkets  and  crowns.  Like  three  birds 
of  night  and  omen,  these  three  evil  natures  settled  on  the  rich 
man's  roof. 

Was  the  rich  man  himself  blind  to  the  motives  which  budded 
forth  into  such  attentive  affection?  His  penetration  was  too 
acute,  his  ill  opinion  of  mankind  too  strong,  perhaps,  for  such 
amiable  self-delusions.  But  he  took  all  in  good  part,  availed 
himself  of  Dalibard's  hints  and  suggestions  as  to  the  employ- 
ment of  his  capital;  was  polite  to  Lucretia,  and  readily  con- 
demned her  to  be  beaten  at  tric-trac,  while  he  accepted  with 
bonhomie  Gabriel's  spirited  copies  of  his  pictures.  But  at 
times  there  was  a  gleam  of  satire  and  malice  in  his  round 
gray  eyes,  and  an  inward  chuckle  at  the  caresses  and  flat- 
teries he  received,  which  perplexed  Dalibard,  and  humbled 
Lucretia.  Had  his  wealth  been  wholly  at  his  own  dis- 
posal, these  signs  would  have  been  inauspicious,  but  the 
new  law  was  strict,  and  the  bulk  of  Bellanger's  property 
could  not  be  alienated  from  his  nearest  kin.  Was  not  Dalibard 
the  nearest  ? 

These  hopes  and  speculations  did  not,  as  we  have  seen,  ab- 
sorb the  restless  and  rank  energies  of  Dalibard's  crooked,  but 
capacious  and  grasping,  intellect.  Patiently  and  ingeniously 
he  pursued  his  main  political  object:  the  detection  of  that  au- 
dacious and  complicated  conspiracy  against  the  First  Consul, 
which  ended  in  the  tragic  deaths  of  Pichegru,  the  Due  d'En- 
ghien,  and  the  erring  but  illustrious  hero  of  La  Vendee,  George 
Cadoudal.  In  the  midst  of  these  dark  plots  for  personal  ag- 


LUCRETIA.  155 

grandizement  and  political  fortune,  we  leave,  for  the  moment, 

the  sombre,  sullen  soul  of  Olivier  Dalibard. 

******* 

Time  has  passed  on,  and  Spring  is  over  the  world;  the 
seeds,  buried  in  the  earth,  burst  to  flower:  but  man's  breast 
knoweth  not  the  sweet  division  of  the  seasons.  In  winter  or 
summer,  autumn  or  spring  alike,  his  thoughts  sow  the  germs  of 
his  actions,  and  day  after  day  his  destiny  gathers  in  her 
harvests. 

The  joy-bells  ring  clear  through  the  groves  of  Laughton — 
an  heir  is  born  to  the  old  name  and  fair  lands  of  St.  John! 
And,  as  usual,  the  present  race  welcomes  merrily  in  that  which 
shall  succeed  and  replace  it;  that  which  shall  thrust  the  enjoy- 
ers  down  into  the  black  graves,  and  wrest  from  them  the  pleas- 
ant goods  of  the  world.  The  joy-bell  of  birth  is  a  note  of 
warning  to  the  knell  for  the  dead ;  it  wakes  the  worms  beneath 
the  mould ;  the  newborn,  every  year  that  it  grows  and  flour- 
ishes, speeds  the  parent  to  their  feast.  Yet  who  can  predict 
that  the  infant  shall  become  the  heir?  Who  can  tell  that  Death 
sits  not  side  by  side  with  the  nurse  at  the  cradle?  Can  the 
mother's  hand  measure  out  the  woof  of  the  Parcae,  or  the  fa- 
ther's eye  detect,  through  the  darkness  of  the  morrow,  the 
gleam  of  the  fatal  shears? 

It  is  market-day  at  a  town  in  the  midland  districts  of  Eng- 
land. There,  trade  takes  its  healthiest  and  most  animated 
form.  You  see  not  the  stunted  form  and  hollow  eye  of  the 
mechanic,  poor  slave  of  the  capitalist,  poor  agent  and  victim 
of  the  arch  disequalizer,  Civilization.  There,  strides  the  burly 
form  of  the  farmer;  there,  waits  the  ruddy  hind  with  his  flock; 
there,  patient,  sits  the  miller  with  his  samples  of  corn ;  there, 
in  the  booths,  gleam  the  humble  wares  which  form  the  luxuries 
of  cottage  and  farm.  The  thronging  of  men,  and  the  clacking  of 
whips,  and  the  dull  sound  of  wagon  or  dray,  that  parts  the 
crowd  as  it  passes,  and  the  lowing  of  herds  and  the  bleating  of 
sheep,  all  are  sounds  of  movement  and  bustle,  yet  blend  with 
the  pastoral  associations  of  the  Primitive  Commerce,  when  the 
link  between  market  and  farm  was  visible  and  direct. 

Towards  one  large  house  in  the  centre  of  the  brisk  life  ebb- 
ing on,  you  might  see  stream  after  stream  pour  its  way.  The 
large  doors  swinging  light  on  their  hinges,  the  gilt  letters  that 
shine  above  the  threshold,  the  windows,  with  their  shutters  out- 
side cased  in  iron  and  studded  with  nails,  announce  that  that 
house  is  the  bank  of  the  town.  Come  in  with  that  yeoman, 
whose  broad  face  tells  its  tale,  sheepish  and  down-eyed ;  he 


156  LUCRETIA. 

has  come  not  to  invest,  but  to  borrow.  What  matters,  war  is 
breaking  out  anew,  to  bring  the  time  of  high  prices,  and  paper 
money  and  credit.  Honest  yeoman,  you  will  not  be  refused. 
He  scratches  his  rough  head,  pulls  a  leg,  as  he  calls  it,  when 
the  clerk  leans  over  the  counter,  and  asks  to  see  "Muster 
Mawnering  hisself. "  The  clerk  points  to  the  little  office-room 
of  the  new  junior  partner,  who  has  brought  ten  thousand 
pounds  and  a  clear  head  to  the  firm.  And  the  yeoman's  great 
boots  creak  heavily  in.  I  told  you  so,  honest  yeoman ;  you 
come  out  with  a  smile  on  your  brown  face,  and  your  hand,  that 
might  fell  an  ox,  buttons  up  your  huge  breeches-pocket.  You 
will  ride  home  with  a  light  heart ;  go  and  dine,  and  be  merry. 

The  yeoman  tramps  to  the  Ordinary ;  plates  clatter,  tongues 
wag;  and  the  borrower's  full  heart  finds  vent  in  a  good  word 
for  that  kind  "Muster  Mawnering."  For  a  wonder,  all  join  in 
the  praise.  "He's  an  honor  to  the  town;  he's  a  pride  to  the 
country;  thof  he's  such  a  friend  at  a  pinch,  he's  a  rale  mon  of 
business!  He'll  make  the  baunk  worth  a  million!  And  how 
well  he  spoke  at  the  great  county  meeting  about  the  war,  and 
the  laund,  and  them  bloodthirsty  Mounseers!  If  their  mem- 
bers were  loike  him,  Muster  Fox  would  look  small!" 

The  day  declines;  the  town  empties — whiskies,  horses,  and 
carts  are  giving  life  to  the  roads  and  the  lanes — and  the  market 
is  deserted,  and  the  bank  is  shut  up,  and  William  Mainwaring 
walks  back  to  his  home  at  the  skirts  of  the  town — not  villa  nor 
cottage — that  plain  English  house  with  its  cheerful  face  of  red 
brick,  and  its  solid  squareness  of  shape,  a  symbol  of  substance 
in  the  fortunes  of  the  owner!  Yet,  as  he  passes,  he  sees 
through  the  distant  trees  the  hall  of  the  member  for  the  town. 
He  pauses  a  moment,  and  sighs  unquietly.  That  pause  and 
that  sigh  betray  the  germ  of  ambition  and  discontent.  Why 
should  not  he,  who  can  speak  so  well,  be  member  for  the  town, 
instead  of  that  stammering  squire?  But  his  reason  has  soon 
silenced  the  querulous  murmur.  He  hastens  his  step — he  is 
at  home!  And  there,  in  the  neat  furnished  drawing-room, 
which  looks  on  the  garden  behind,  hisses  the  welcoming  tea- 
urn;  and  the  piano  is  open,  and  there  is  a  packet  of  new 
books  on  the  table;  and,  best  of  all,  there  is  the  glad  face  of 
the  sweet  English  wife.  The  happy  scene  was  characteristic  of 
the  time,  just  when  the  simpler  and  more  innocent  luxuries  of 
the  higher  class  spread,  not  to  spoil,  but  refine,  the  middle. 
The  dress,  air,  mien,  movements  of  the  young  couple;  the  un- 
assuming, suppressed,  sober  elegance  of  the  house;  the 
flower-garden,  the  books,  and  the  music,  evidences  of  cultiva- 


LUCRETIA.  157 

ted  taste,  not  signals  of  display — all  bespoke  the  gentle  fusion 
of  ranks,  before  rude  and  uneducated  wealth,  made  in  looms 
and  lucky  hits,  rushed  in  to  separate  forever  the  gentleman 
from  the  parvenu. 

Spring  smiles  over  Paris,  over  the  spires  of  Notre  Dame, 
and  the  crowded  alleys  of  the  Tuileries,  over  thousands  and 
thousands  eager,  joyous,  aspiring,  reckless — the  New  Race  of 
France — bound  to  one  man's  destiny,  children  of  glory  and 
carnage,  whose  blood  the  wolf  and  the  vulture  scent,  hungry, 
from  afar! 

The  conspiracy  against  the  life  of  the  First  Consul  had  been 
detected  and  defeated.  Pichegru  is  in  prison,  George  Cadoudal 
awaits  his  trial,  the  Due  d'Enghien  sleeps  in  his  bloody  grave; 
the  imperial  crown  is  prepared  for  the  great  soldier,  and  the  great 
soldier's  creatures  bask  in  the  noonday  sun.  Olivier  Dalibard 
is  in  high  and  lucrative  employment :  his  rise  is  ascribed  to  his 
talents,  his  opinions.  No  service  connected  with  the  detection 
of  the  conspiracy  is  traced  or  traceable  by  the  public  eye.  If 
such  exist,  it  is  known  but  to  those  who  have  no  desire  to  reveal 
it.  The  old  apartments  are  retained;  but  they  are  no  longer 
dreary,  and  comfortless,  and  deserted.  They  are  gay  with 
draperies,  and  ormolu,  and  mirrors,  and  Madame  Dalibard  has 
her  nights  of  reception,  and  Monsieur  Dalibard  has  already  his 
troops  of  clients.  In  that  gigantic  concentration  of  egotism 
which,  under  Napoleon,  is  called  the  State,  Dalibard  has  found 
his  place.  He  has  served  to  swell  the  power  of  the  unit,  and 
the  cypher  gains  importance  by  its  position  in  the  sum. 

Jean  Bellanger  is  no  more.  He  died,  not  suddenly,  and  yet 
of  some  quick  disease — nervous  exhaustion:  his  schemes,  they 
said,  had  worn  him  out.  But  the  state  of  Dalibard,  though 
prosperous,  is  not  that  of  the  heir  to  the  dead  millionnaire. 
What  mistake  is  this?  The  bulk  of  that  wealth  must  go  to  his 
nearest  kin — so  runs  the  law.  But  the  will  is  read ;  and,  for 
the  first  time,  Olivier  Dalibard  learns  that  the  dead  man  had  a 
son — a  son  by  a  former  marriage — the  marriage  undeclared,  un- 
known, amidst  the  riot  of  the  Revolution ;  for  the  wife  was  the 
daughter  of  a  proscrit.  The  son  had  been  reared  at  a  distance, 
put  to  school  at  Lyons,  and  unavowed  to  the  second  wife,  who 
had  brought  an  ample  dower,  and  whom  that  discovery  might 
have  deterred  from  the  altar.  Unacknowledged  through  life, 
in  death,  at  least,  his  son's  rights  are  proclaimed:  and  Olivier 
Dalibard  feels  that  Jean  Bellanger  has  died. in  vain  !  For  days 
has  the  pale  Provencal  been  closeted  with  lawyers;  but  there 
is  no  hope  in  litigation.  The  proofs  of  the  marriage,  the  birth, 


158  LUCRETIA. 

the  identity,  come  out  clear  and  clearer;  and  the  beardless 
schoolboy  at  Lyons  reaps  all  the  profit  of  those  nameless 
schemes  and  that  mysterious  death.  Olivier  Dalibard  desires 
the  friendship,  the  intimacy  of  the  heir.  But  the  heir  is  con- 
signed to  the  guardianship  of  a  merchant  at  Lyons,  near  of  kin 
to  his  mother,  and  the  guardian  responds  but  coldly  to  Oliv- 
ier's  letters.  Suddenly  the  defeated  aspirant  seems  reconciled 
to  his  loss.  The  widow  Bellanger  has  her  own  separate  for- 
tune ;  and  it  is  large,  beyond  expectation.  In  addition  to  the 
wealth  she  brought  the  deceased,  his  affection  had  led  him  to 
invest  vast  sums  in  her  name.  The  widow,  then,  is  rich — rich 
as  the  heir  himself.  She  is  still  fair.  Poor  woman,  she  needs 
consolation  !  But  meanwhile,  the  nights  of  Olivier  Dalibard  are 
disturbed  and  broken.  His  eye,  in  the  daytime,  is  haggard  and 
anxious;  he  is  seldom  seen  on  foot  in  the  streets.  Fear  is  his 
companion  by  day,  and  sits  at  night  on  his  pillow.  The 
Chouan,  Pierre  Guiilot,  who  looked  to  George  Cadoudal  as  a 
god,  knows  that  George  Cadoudal  has  been  betrayed,  and  sus- 
pects Olivier  Dalibard ;  and  the  Chouan  has  an  arm  of  iron 
and  a  heart  steeled  against  all  mercy.  Oh,  how  the  pale 
scholar  thirsted  for  that  Chouan 's  blood!  With  what  relent- 
less pertinacity,  with  what  ingenious  research,  he  has  set  all  the 
hounds  of  the  police  upon  the  track  of  that  single  man !  How 
notably  he  had  failed !  An  avenger  lived ;  and  Olivier  Dali- 
bard started  at  his  own  shadow  on  the  wall.  But  he  did  not 
the  less  continue  to  plot  and  to  intrigue ;  nay,  such  occupation 
became  more  necessary,  as  an  escape  from  himself. 

And,  in  the  mean  while,  Olivier  Dalibard  sought  to  take  cour- 
age from  the  recollection  that  the  Chouan  had  taken  an  oath 
(and  he  knew  that  oaths  are  held  sacred  with  the  Bretons)  that 
he  would  keep  his  hand  from  his  knife,  unless  he  had  clear 
evidence  of  treachery;  such  evidence  existed,  but  only  in 
Dalibard's  desk,  or  the  archives  of  Fouche.  Tush,  he  was 
safe!  And  so,  when  from  dreams  of  fear  he  started  at  the 
depth  of  night,  so  his  bolder  wife  would  whisper  to  him  with 
firm,  uncaressing  lips,  Olivier  Dalibard,  thou  fearest  the  liv- 
ing, dost  thou  never  fear  the  dead?  Thy  dreams  are  haunted 
with  a  spectre.  Why  takes  it  not  the  accusing  shape  of  thy 
mouldering  kinsman?  Dalibard  would  have  answered,  for  he 
was  a  philosopher  in  his  cowardice,  "//  n"y  a  que  les  morts ,  qui 
tie  rcviennent  pas." 

It  is  the  notable  convenience  of  us  narrators,  to  represent  by 
what  is  called  soliloquy,  the  thoughts,  the  interior  of  the  per- 
sonages we  describe.  And  this  is  almost  the  master-work  of 


LUCRETIA.  159 

the  tale-teller ;  that  is,  if  the  soliloquy  be  really  in  words,  what 
self-commune  is  in  the  dim  and  tangled  recesses  of  the  human 
heart !  But  to  this  privilege  we  are  rarely  admitted  in  the  case 
of  Olivier  Dalibard j  for  he  rarely  communed  with  himself;  a 
sort  of  mental  calculation,  it  is  true,  eternally  went  on  within 
him,  like  the  wheels  of  a  destiny;  but  it  had  become  a  me- 
chanical operation,  seldom  disturbed  by  that  consciousness  of 
thought,  with  its  struggles  of  fear  and  doubt,  conscience  and 
crime,  which  gives  its  appalling  interest  to  the  soliloquy  of  trag- 
edy. Amidst  the  tremendous  secrecy  of  that  profound  intel- 
lect, as  at  the  bottom  of  a  sea,  only  monstrous  images  of  terror, 
things  of  prey,  stirred  in  cold-blooded  and  devouring  life ;  but 
into  these  deeps  Olivier  himself  did  not  dive.  He  did  not 
face  his  own  soul ;  his  outer  life  and  his  inner  life  seemed  sep- 
arate individualities,  just  as,  in  some  complicated  State,  the 
social  machine  goes  on  through  all  its  numberless  cycles  of 
vice  and  dread,  whatever  the  acts  of  the  governments,  which 
is  the  representative  of  the  State,  and  stands  for  the  State  in 
the  shallow  judgment  of  history. 

Before  this  time  Olivier  Dalibard's  manner  to  his  son  had 
greatly  changed  from  the  indifference  it  betrayed  in  England ; 
it  was  kind  and  affectionate,  almost  caressing;  while  on  the 
other  hand,  Gabriel,  as  if  in  possession  of  some  secret  which 
gave  him  power  over  his  father,  took  a  more  careless  and  inde- 
pendent tone,  often  absented  himself  from  the  house  for  days 
together,  joined  the  revels  of  young  profligates  older  than 
himself,  with  whom  he  had  formed  acqauintance,  indulged  in 
spendthrift  expenses,  and  plunged  prematurely  into  the  stream 
of  vicious  pleasure  that  oozed  through  the  mud  of  Paris. 

One  morning  Dalibard,  returning  from  a  visit  to  Madame 
Bellanger,  found  Gabriel  alone  in  the  salon,  contemplating  his 
fair  face  and  gay  dress  in  one  of  the  mirrors,  and  smoothing 
down  the  hair,  which  he  wore  long  and  sleek,  as  in  the  por- 
traits of  Raffaelle.  Dalibard's  lip  curled  at  the  boy's  cox- 
combry, though  such  tastes  he  himself  had  fostered,  accord- 
ing to  his  ruling  principles,  that  to  govern,  you  must  find  a 
foible,  or  instil  it ;  but  the  sneer  changed  into  a  smile. 

"Are  you  satisfied  with  yourself,  joligarfon?  "  he  said,  with 
saturnine  playfulness. 

"At  least,  sir,  I  hope  that  you  will  not  be  ashamed  of  me 
when  you  formally  legitimatize  me  as  your  son.  The  time  has 
come,  you  know,  to  keep  your  promise." 

"And  it  shall  be  kept,  do  not  fear.  But  first,  I  have  an 
employment  for  you — a  mission — your  first  embassy,  Gabriel." 


l6o  LUCRETIA. 

"I  listen,  sir." 

"I  have  to  send  to  England  a  communication  of  the  utmost 
importance — public  importance — to  the  secret  agent  of  the 
French  government.  We  are  on  the  eve  of  a  descent  on 
England.  We  are  in  correspondence  with  some  in  London  on 
whom  we  count  for  support.  A  man  might  be  suspected,  and 
searched — mind,  searched.  You,  a  boy,  with  English  name 
and  speech,  will  be  my  safest  envoy.  Buonaparte  approves  my 
selection.  On  your  return,  he  permits  me  to  present  you  to 
him.  He  loves  the  rising  generation.  In  a  few  days  you  will 
be  prepared  to  start." 

Despite  the  calm  tone  of  the  father,  so  had  the  son,  from  the 
instinct  of  fear  and  self-preservation,  studied  every  accent, 
every  glance  of  Olivier;  so  had  he  constituted  himself  a  spy 
upon  the  heart  whose  perfidy  was  ever  armed,  that  he  detected 
at  once  in  the  proposal  some  scheme  hostile  to  his  interests. 
He  made,  however,  no  opposition  to  the  plan  suggested ;  and, 
seemingly  satisfied  with  his  obedience,  the  father  dismissed  him. 

As  soon  as  he  was  in  the  streets,  Gabriel  went  straight  to  the 
house  of  Madame  Bellanger.  The  hotel  had  been  purchased 
in  her  name,  and  she  therefore  retained  it.  Since  her  hus- 
band's death,  he  had  avoided  that  house,  before  so  familiar  to 
him ;  and  now  he  grew  pale,  and  breathed  hard,  as  he  passed 
by  the  porter's  lodge  up  the  lofty  stairs. 

He  knew  of  his  father's  recent  and  constant  visits  at  the 
house;  and,  without  conjecturing  precisely  what  were  Oli- 
vier's  designs,  he  connected  them,  in  the  natural  and  acquired 
shrewdness  he  possessed,  with  the  wealthy  widow.  He  re- 
solved to  watch,  observe,  and  draw  his  own  conclusions.  As 
he  entered  Madame  Bellanger's  room  rather  abruptly  he  ob- 
served her  push  aside  amongst  her  papers  something  she  had 
been  gazing  on ;  something  which  sparkled  to  his  eyes.  He 
sate  himself  down  close  to  her  with  the  caressing  manner  he 
usually  adopted  towards  women ;  and  in  the  midst  of  the  bab- 
bling talk  with  which  ladies  generally  honor  boys,  he  suddenly, 
as  if  by  accident,  displaced  the  papers,  and  saw  his  father's 
miniature  set  in  brilliants.  The  start  of  the  widow,  her  blush, 
and  her  exclamation,  strengthened  the  light  that  flashed  upon 
his  mind.  "Oho,  I  see  now,"  he  said,  laughing,  "why  my 
father  is  always  praising  black  hair;  and — nay,  nay — gentle- 
men may  admire  ladies  in  Paris,  surely!" 

"Pooh,  my  dear  child,  your  father  is  an  old  friend  of  my 
poor  husband's,  and  a  near  relation  too!  But  Gabriel,  mon 
petit  ange  ;  you  had  better  not  say  at  home  that  you  have  seen 


LUCREtlA.  l6l 

this  picture ;  Madame  Dalibard  might  be  foolish  enough  to  be 
angry." 

"To  be  sure  not.  I  have  kept  a  secret  before  now!"  and 
again  the  boy's  cheek  grew  pale,  and  he  looked  hurriedly 
round. 

"And  you  are  very  fond  of  Madame  Dalibard,  too,  so  you 
must  not  vex  her." 

"Who  says  I'm  fond  of  Madame  Dalibard?     A  stepmother!" 

"Why,  your  father,  of  course — il  est  si  bon—ce  pauvre  Dali- 
bard ;  and  all  men  like  cheerful  faces,  but  then,  poor  lady — an 
English  woman  so  strange  here — very  natural  she  should  fret, 
and  with  bad  health,  too." 

"Bad  health!  Ah!  I  remember!  She  also  does  not  seem 
likely  to  live  long!" 

"So  your  poor  father  apprehends.  Well,  well,  how  uncer- 
tain life  is !  Who  would  have  thought  dear  Bellanger  would 
have — " 

Gabriel  rose  hastily,  and  interrupted  the  widow's  pathetic 
reflections.  "I  only  ran  in  to  say,  Bon  jour.  I  must  leave 
you  now." 

"Adieu,  my  dear  boy — not  a  word  on  the  miniature!  By 
the  by,  here's  a  shirt-pin  for  you — tu  es  joli  comme  un  amour" 

All  was  now  clear  to  Gabriel ;  it  was  necessary  to  get  rid  of 
him,  and  forever!  Dalibard  might  dread  his  attachment  to 
Lucretia;  he  would  dread  still  more  his  closer  intimacy  with 
the  widow  of  Bellanger,  should  that  widow  wed  again,  and 
Dalibard,  freed  like  her  (by  what  means?)  be  her  choice! 
Into  that  abyss  of  wickedness,  fathomless  to  the  innocent,  the 
young  villanous  eye  plunged,  and  surveyed  the  ground;  a 
terror  seized  on  him — a  terror  of  life  and  death.  Would  Dali- 
bard spare  even  his  own  son,  if  that  son  had  the  power  to  in- 
jure? This  mission — was  it  exile  only?  Only  a  fall  back  to 
the  old  squalor  of  his  uncle's  studio?  Only  the  laying  aside  of 
a  useless  tool?  Or  was  it  a  snare  to  the  grave?  Demon  as 
Dalibard  was,  doubtless  the  boy  wronged  him.  But  guilt  con- 
strues guilt  for  the  worst. 

Gabriel  had  formerly  enjoyed  the  thought  to  match  himself, 
should  danger  come,  with  Dalibard;  the  hour  //a^/come,  and 
he  felt  his  impotence.  Brave  his  father,  and  refuse  to  leave 
France !  From  that  even  his  reckless  hardihood  shrank,  as 
from  inevitable  destruction.  But  to  depart ;  be  the  poor  vic- 
tim and  dupe ;  after  having  been  let  loose  amongst  the  riot  of 
pleasure,  to  return  to  labor  and  privation — from  that  option  his 
vanity  and  his  senses  vindictively  revolted.  And  Lucretia! 


162  LUCRETIA. 

The  only  being  who  seemed  to  have  a  human  kindness  to  him! 
Through  all  the  vicious  egotism  of  his  nature,  he  had  some 
grateful  sentiments  for  her!  And  even  the  egotism  assisted 
that  unwonted  amiability,  for  he  felt  that,  Lucretia  gone,  he 
had  no  hold  on  his  father's  house — that  the  home  of  her  suc- 
cessor never  would  be  his.  While  thus  brooding  he  lifted 
his  eyes,  and  saw  Dalibard  pass  in  his  carriage  towards  the 
Tuileries.  The  house,  then,  was  clear;  he  could  see  Lucretia 
alone.  He  formed  his  resolution  at  once,  and  turned  home- 
wards. As  he  did  so  he  observed  a  man  at  the  angle  of  the 
street,  whose  eyes  followed  Dalibard's  carriage  with  an  expres- 
sion of  unmistakable  hate  and  revenge;  but  scarcely  had  he 
marked  the  countenance,  before  the  man,  looking  hurriedly 
round,  darted  away  and  was  lost  amongst  the  crowd. 

Now,  that  countenance  was  not  quite  unfamiliar  to  Gabriel. 
He  had  seen  it  before,  as  he  saw  it  now,  hastily,  and,  as  it 
were,  by  fearful  snatches.  Once  he  had  marked,  on  returning 
home  at  twilight,  a  figure  lurking  by  the  house;  and  something 
in  the  quickness  with  which  it  turned  from  his  gaze,  joined  to 
his  knowledge  of  Dalibard's  apprehensions,  made  him  mention 
the  circumstance  to  his  father,  when  he  entered.  Dalibard 
bade  him  hasten  with  a  note,  written  hurriedly,  to  an  agent  of 
the  police,  whom  he  kept  lodged  near  at  hand.  The  man 
was  still  on  the  threshold  when  the  boy  went  out  on  his  errand, 
and  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  face;  but  before  the  police-agent 
reached  the  spot,  the  ill-omened  apparition  had  vanished. 
Gabriel  now,  as  his  eye  rested  full  upon  that  threatening 
brow,  and  those  burning  eyes,  was  convinced  that  he  saw 
before  him  the  terrible  Pierre  Guillot,  whose  very  name 
blanched  his  father's  cheek.  When  the  figure  retreated,  he 
resolved  at  once  to  pursue.  He  hurried  through  the  crowd 
amidst  which  the  man  had  disappeared,  and  looked  eagerly 
into  the  faces  of  those  he  jostled;  sometimes,  at  the  dis- 
tance, he  caught  sight  of  a  figure  which  appeared  to  resemble 
the  one  which  he  pursued,  but  the  likeness  faded  on  approach. 
The  chase,  however,  vague  and  desultory  as  it  was,  led  him  on 
till  his  way  was  lost  amongst  labyrinths  of  narrow  and  unfa- 
miliar streets.  Heated  and  thirsty,  he  paused  at  last  before  a 
small  cafe,  entered  to  ask  for  a  draught  of  lemonade,  and  be- 
hold, chance  had  favored  him !  The  man  he  sought  was 
seated  there,  before  a  bottle  of  wine,  and  intently  reading  the 
newspaper.  Gabriel  sat  himself  down  at  the  adjoining  table. 
In  a  few  moments  the  man  was  joined  by  a  new  comer;  the 
two  conversed,  but  in  whispers  so  low,  that  Gabriel  was  unable 


LUCRETIA.  163 

to  hear  their  conversation,  though  he  caught  more  than  once 
the  name  of  "George."  Both  the  men  were  violently  excited, 
and  the  expression  of  their  countenances  was  menacing  and 
sinister.  The  first-comer  pointed  often  to  the  newspaper,  and 
read  passages  from  it  to  his  companion.  This  suggested  to 
Gabriel  the  demand  for  another  journal.  When  the  waiter 
brought  it  to  him,  his  eye  rested  upon  a  long  paragraph,  in 
which  the  name  of  George  Cadoudal  frequently  occurred.  In 
fact,  all  the  journals  of  the  day  were  filled  with  speculations  on 
the  conspiracy  and  trial  of  that  fiery  martyr  to  an  erring 
adaptation  of  a  noble  principle.  Gabriel  knew  that  his  father 
had  had  a  principal  share  in  the  detection  of  the  defeated  en- 
terprise ;  and  his  previous  persuasions  were  confirmed. 

His  sense  of  hearing  grew  sharper  by  continued  effort,  and 
at  length  he  heard  the  first-comer  say  distinctly;  "If  I  were 
but  sure  that  I  had  brought  this  fate  upon  George,  by  introduc- 
ing to  him  that  accursed  Dalibard ;  if  my  oath  did  but  justify 
me,  I  would — "  The  concluding  sentence  was  lost.  A  few 
moments  after  the  two  men  rose,  and  from  the  familiar  words 
that  passed  between  them  and  the  master  of  the  cafe,  who 
approached,  himself,  to  receive  the  reckoning,  the  shrewd  boy 
perceived  that  the  place  was  no  unaccustomed  haunt.  He 
crept  nearer  and  nearer;  and  as  the  landlord  shook  hands  with 
his  customer,  he  heard  distinctly  the  former  address  him  by 
the  name  of  "Guillot."  When  the  men  withdrew,  Gabriel  fol- 
lowed them  at  a  distance  (taking  care  first  to  impress  on  his 
memory  the  name  of  the  caft,  and  the  street  in  which  it  was 
placed)  and,  as  he  thought,  unobserved ;  he  was  mistaken. 
Suddenly,  in  one  street,  more  solitary  than  the  rest, the  man  whom 
he  was  mainly  bent  on  tracking  turned  round,  advanced  to  Ga- 
briel, who  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  street,  and  laid  his  hand 
upon  him  so  abruptly  that  the  boy  was  fairly  taken  by  surprise. 

"Who  bade  you  follow  us?"  said  he,  with  so  dark  and  fell 
an  expression  of  countenance  that  even  Gabriel's  courage  failed 
him;  "no  evasion,  no  lies — speak  out,  and  at  once"  ;  and  the 
grasp  tightened  on  the  boy's  throat. 

Gabriel's  readiness-of  resource  and  presence  of  mind  did  not 
long  forsake  him. 

"Loose  your  hold,  and  I  will  tell  you — you  stifle  me."  The 
man  slightly  relaxed  his  grasp,  and  Gabriel  said,  quickly:  "My 
mother  perished  on  the  guillotine  in  the  Reign  of  Terror;  I 
am  for  the  Bourbons.  I  thought  I  overheard  words  which 
showed  sympathy  for  poor  George,  the  brave  Chouan.  I 
followed  you;  for  I  thought  I  was  following  friends." 


164  LUCRETIA. 

The  man  smiled  as  he  fixed  his  steady  eye  upon  the  unflinch- 
ing child:  "My  poor  lad,"  he  said  gently,  "I  believe  you — • 
pardon  me;  but  follow  us  no  more,  we  are  dangerous!"  Ke 
waved  his  hand,  and  strode  away,  rejoined  his  companion,  and 
Gabriel  reluctantly  abandoned  the  pursuit,  and  went  home- 
ward. It  was  long  before  he  reached  his  father's  house,  for  he 
had  strayed  into  a  strange  quarter  of  Paris,  and  had  frequently 
to  inquire  the  way.  At  length  he  reached  home,  and  ascended 
the  stairs  to  a  small  room,  in  which  Lucretia  usually  sate,  and 
which  was  divided  by  a  narrow  corridor  from  the,  sleeping 
chamber  of  herself  and  Dalibard.  His  stepmother,  leaning  her 
cheek  upon  her  hand,  was  seated  by  the  window,  so  absorbed 
in  some  gloomy  thoughts,  which  cast  over  her  rigid  face  a 
shade  intense  and  solemn  as  despair,  that  she  did  not  perceive 
the  approach  of  the  boy  till  he  threw  his  arm  round  her  neck, 
and  then  she  started  as  in  alarm: 

"You!  Only  you,"  she  said,  with  a  constrained  smile; 
"See,  my  nerves  are  not  so  strong  as  they  were!" 

"You  are  disturbed,  belle  mere  ;  has  tie  been  vexing  you?" 

"He — Dalibard — no,  indeed;  we  were  only,  this  morning, 
discussing  matters  of  business." 

"Business!     That  means  money!" 

"Truly,"  said  Lucretia,  "money  does  make  the  staple  of 
life's  business.  In  spite  of  his  new  appointment,  your  father 
needs  some  sums  in  hand — favors  are  to  be  bought,  opportu- 
nities for  speculation  occur,  and — " 

"And  my  father,"  interrupted  Gabriel,  "wishes  your  con- 
sent to  raise  the  rest  of  your  portion." 

Lucretia  looked  surprised,  but  answered  quietly:  "He  had 
my  consent  long  since,  but  the  trustees  to  the  marriage  settle- 
ment— mere  men  of  business,  my  uncle's  bankers,  for  I  had 
lost  all  claim  on  my  kindred — refuse,  or  at  least  interpose  such 
difficulties  as  amount  to  refusal." 

' '  But  that  reply  came  some  days  since, ' '  said  Gabriel  musingly. 

"How  did  you  know;  did  your  father  tell  you?" 

"Poor  belle  mere!"  said  Gabriel,  almost  with  pity,  "can 
you  live  in  this  house,  and  not  watch  afl  that  passes — every 
stranger,  every  message,  every  letter?  But  what,  then,  does 
he  wish  with  you?" 

"He  has  suggested  my  returning  to  England,  and  seeing  the 
trustees  myself.  His  interest  can  obtain  my  passport." 

"And  you  have  refused?" 

"I  have  not  consented." 

"Consent!     Hush!     Your  maid — Marie  is  not  waiting  with- 


LUCRETIA.  165 

out,"  and  Gabriel  rose  and  looked  forth;  "No,  confound 
these  doors !  None  close  as  they  ought  in  this  house.  Is  it 
not  a  clause  in  your  settlement  that  the  half  of  your  fortune 
now  invested  goes  to  the  survivor?" 

"It  is,"  replied  Lucretia,  struck  and  thrilled  at  the  question. 
"How,  again,  did  you  know  this?" 

"I  saw  my  father  reading  the  copy.  If  you  die  first,  then, 
he  has  all!  If  he  merely  wanted  the  money,  he  would  not 
send  you  away!" 

There  was  a  terrible  pause.  Gabriel  resumed:  "I  trust  you, 
it  may  be,  with  my  life ;  but  I  will  speak  out.  My  father  goes 
much  to  Bellanger's  widow;  she  is  rich  and  weak.  Come  to 
England !  Yes,  come — for  he  is  about  to  dismiss  me.  He 
fears  that  I  shall  be  in  the  way,  to  warn  you,  perhaps,  or  to — 
to — in  short,  both  of  us  are  in  his  way.  He  gives  you  an  es- 
cape. Once  in  England,  the  war  which  is  breaking  out  will 
prevent  your  return.  He  will  twist  the  laws  of  divorce  to-  his 
favor;  he  will  marry  again!  What  then?  He  spares  you 
what  remains  of  your  fortune ;  he  spares  your  life.  Remain 
here,  cross  his  schemes,  and — no,  no;  come  to  England — safer 
anywhere  than  here!" 

As  he  spoke  great  changes  had  passed  over  Lucretia's  coun- 
tenance. At  first  it  was  the  flash  of  conviction,  then  the 
stunned  shock  of  horror ;  now  she  rose — rose  to  her  full  height — 
and  there  was  a  livid  and  deadly  light  in  her  eyes — the  light  of 
conscious  courage,  and  power,  and  revenge.  "Fool,"  she  mut- 
tered, "with  all  his  craft!  Fool,  fool!  As  if,  in  the  war  of 
household  perfidy,  the  woman  did  not  always  conquer!  Man's 
only  chance  is  to  be  mailed  in  honor!" 

"But, "said  Gabriel,  overhearing  her;  "but  you  do  not  re- 
member what  it  is.  There  is  nothing  you  can  see,  and  guard 
against.  It  is  not  like  an  enemy  face  to  face;  it  is  death  in 
the  food,  in  the  air,  in  the  touch.  You  stretch  out  your  arms 
in  the  dark,  you  feel  nothing,  and  you  die !  Oh,  do  not  fancy 
that  I  have  not  thought  well  (for  I  am  almost  a  man  now)  if 
there  were  no  means  to  resist ;  there  are  none !  As  well  make 
head  against  the  plague — it  is  in  the  atmosphere."  Come  to 
England,  and  return.  Live  poorly,  if  you  must,  but  live ! — but 
live!" 

"Return  to  England  poor  and  despised,  and  bound  still  to 
him,  or  a  disgraced  and  divorced  wife — disgraced  by  the  low- 
born dependent  on  my  kinsman's  house — and  fawn  perhaps 
upon  my  sister  and  her  husband  for  bread!  Never!  I  am  at 
my  post,  and  I  will  not  fly!" 


166  LUCRETIA. 

"Brave!  Brave!"  said  the  boy,  clapping  his  hands,  and 
sincerely  moved  by  a  daring  superior  to  his  own;  "I  wish  I 
could  help  you!" 

Lucretia's  eye  rested  on  him  with  the  full  gaze,  so  rare  in  its 
looks.  She  drew  him  to  her,  and  kissed  his  brow;  "Boy,  through 
life,  whatever  our  guilt  and  its  doom,  we  are  bound  to  each 
other.  I  may  yet  live  to  have  wealth;  if  so,  it  is  yours  as  a 
son's.  I  may  be  iron  to  others,  never  to  you.  Enough  of 
this — I  must  reflect!"  She  passed  her  hands  over  her  eyes  a 
moment,  and  resumed:  "You  would  help  me  in  my  self- 
defence;  I  think  you  can.  You  have  been  more  alert  in  your 
watch  than  I  have.  You  must  have  means  I  have  not  secured. 
Your  father  guards  well  all  his  papers!" 

"I  have  keys  to  every  desk.  My  foot  passed  the  threshold 
of  that  room  under  the  roof  before  yours.  But  no ;  his  powers 
can  never  be  yours!  He  has  never  confided  to  you  half  his 
secrets!  He  has  antidotes  for  every — every — " 

"Hist!  What  noise  is  that?  Only  the  shower  on  the  case- 
ments! No,  no,  child,  that  is  not  my  object.  CadoudaFs  con- 
spiracy! Your  father  has  letters  from  Fouche"  which  show 
how  he  has  betrayed  others  who  are  stronger  to  avenge  than  a 
woman  and  a  boy." 

"Well!" 

"I  would  have  those  letters!  Give  me  the  keys!  But  hold! 
Gabriel — Gabriel,  you  may  yet  misjudge  him.  This  woman — 
wife  to  the  dead  man — ///Vwife!  Horror!  Have  you  no  proofs 
of  what  you  imply?" 

"Proofs!"  echoed  Gabriel,  in  a  tone  of  wonder,  "I  can  but 
see  and  conjecture.  You  are  warned,  watch  and  decide  for 
yourself.  But  again  I  say,  come  to  England;  1  shall  go!" 

Without  reply,  Lucretia  took  the  keys  from  Gabriel's  half- 
reluctant  hand,  and  passed  into  her  husband's  writing-room. 
When  she  had  entered,  she  locked  the  door.  She  passed  at 
once  to  a  huge  secretary,  of  which  the  key  was  small  as  a  fairy's 
work.  She  opened  it  with  ease  by  one  of  the  counterfeits. 
No  love  correspondence — the  first  object  of  her  search,  for  she 
was  woman — met  her  eye.  What  need  of  letters,  when  inter- 
views were  so  facile!  But  she  soon  found  a  document  that 
told  all  which  love-letters  could  tell;  it  was  an  account  of  the 
money  and  possessions  of  Madame  Bellanger,  and  there  were 
pencil  notes  on  the  margin:  "Vautran  will  give  400,000 
francs  for  the  lands  in  Auvergne — to  be  accepted.  Consult  on 
the  power  of  sale  granted  to  a  second  husband.  Query,  if 
there  is  no  chance  of  the  heir-at-law  disputing  the  money  in« 


LUCRLTIA.  167 

vested  in  Madame  B 's  name," — and  such  memoranda  as  a 

man  notes  down  in  the  schedule  of  properties  about  to  be  his 
own.  In  these  inscriptions  there  was  a  hideous  mockery  of  all 
love;  like  the  blue  lights  of  corruption,  they  showed  the  black 
vault  of  the  heart.  The  pale  reader  saw  what  her  own  attrac- 
tions had  been,  and,  fallen  as  she  was,  she  smiled  superior  in 
her  bitterness  of  scorn.  Arranged  methodically  with  the  preci- 
sion of  business,  she  found  the  letters  she  next  looked  for;  one 
recognizing  Dalibard's  service  in  the  detection  of  the  con- 
spiracy, and  authorizing  him  to  employ  the  police  in  the  search 
of  Pierre  Guillot,  sufficed  for  her  purpose.  She  withdrew,  and 
secreted  it.  She  was  about  to  lock  up  the  secretary,  when  her 
eye  fell  on  the  title  of  a  small  MS.  volume  in  a  corner;  and  as 
she  read,  she  pressed  one  hand  convulsively  to  her  heart,  while, 
twice  with  the  other,  she  grasped  the  volume,  and  twice  with- 
drew the  grasp.  The  title  ran  harmlessly  thus :  ' '  Philosophical 
and  Chemical  Inquiries  into  the  Nature  and  Materials  of  the 
Poisons  in  Use  between  the  1 4th  and  i6th  Centuries."  Hur- 
riedly, and  at  last,  as  if  doubtful  of  herself,  she  left  the  MS., 
closed  the  secretary,  and  returned  to  Gabriel. 

"You  have  got  the  paper  you  seek?"  he  said. 

"Yes." 

"Then  whatever  you  do,  you  must  be  quick;  he  will  soon 
discover  the  loss." 

"I  will  be  quick." 

"It  is  I  whom  he  will  suspect,"  said  Gabriel,  in  alarm,  as 
that  thought  struck  him.  "No,  for  my  sake,  do  not  take  the 
letter  till  I  am  gone.  Do  not  fear,  in  the  mean  time;  he  will 
do  nothing  against  you,  while  I  am  here." 

"I  will  replace  the  letter  till  then,"  said  Lucretia  meekly. 
"You  have  a  right  to  my  first  thoughts."  So  she  went  back, 
and  Gabriel  (suspicious,  perhaps)  crept  after  her. 

As  she  replaced  the  document,  he  pointed  to  the  MS. 
which  had  tempted  her:  "  I  have  seen  that  before,  how  I 
longed  for  it!  If  anything  ever  happens  to  him,  I  claim  that 
as  my  legacy." 

Their  hands  met  as  he  said  this,  and  grasped  each  other  con- 
vulsively; Lucretia  relocked  the  secretary,  and  when  she 
gained  the  next  room,  she  tottered  to  a  chair.  Her  strong 
nerves  gave  way  for  the  moment;  she  uttered  no  cry,  but,  by 
the  whiteness  of  her  face,  Gabriel  saw  that  she  was  senseless; 
senseless  for  a  minute  or  so,  scarcely  more.  But  the  return  to 
consciousness-  with  a  clenched  hand,  and  a  brow  of  defiance, 
and  a  stare  of  mingled  desperation  and  dismay,  seemed  rather 


l68  LUCRETIA. 

the  awakening  from  some  frightful  dream  of  violence  and 
struggle  than  the  slow,  languid  recovery  from  the  faintness  of  a 
swoon.  Yes,  henceforth,  to  sleep,  was  to  couch  by  a  serpent; 
to  breathe  was  to  listen  for  the  avalanche !  Thou  who  didst 
trifle  so  wantonly  with  Treason,  now  gravely  front  the  grim 
comrade  thou  hast  won;  thou  scheming  desecrator  of  the  House- 
hold Gods,  now  learn,  to  the  last  page  of  dark  knowledge,  what 
the  hearth  is  without  them ! 

Gabriel  was  strangely  moved  as  he  beheld  that  proud  and 
solitary  despair.  An  instinct  of  nature  had  hitherto  checked 
him  from  actively  aiding  Lucretia  in  that  struggle  with  his 
father,  which  could  but  end  in  the  destruction  of  one  or  the 
other.  He  had  contented  himself  with  forewarnings,  with 
hints,  with  indirect  suggestions;  but  now,  all  his  sympathy 
was  so  strongly  roused  on  her  behalf,  that  the  last  faint  scruple 
of  filial  conscience  vanished  into  the  abyss  of  blood,  over  which 
stood  that  lonely  Titaness.  He  drew  near,  and,  clasping  her 
hand,  said,  in  a  quick  and  broken  voice: 

"Listen!  You  know  where  to  find  proof  of  my  fa — that  is, 
of — Dalibard's  treason  to  the  conspirators;  you  know  the  name 
of  the  man  he  dreads  as  an  avenger,  and  you  know  that  he  waits 
but  the  proof  to  strike;  but  you  do  not  know  where  to  find 
that  man,  if  his  revenge  is  wanting  for  yourself.  The  police 
has  not  hunted  him  out;  how  can  you?  Accident  has  made 
me  acquainted  with  one  of  his  haunts.  Give  me  a  single 
promise,  and  I  will  put  you  at  least  upon  that  clue — weak,  per- 
haps, but  as  yet  the  sole  one  to  be  followed.  Promise  me  that, 
only  in  defence  of  your  own  life,  not  for  mere  jealousy,  you 
will  avail  yourself  of  the  knowledge,  and  you  shall  know  all 
I  do!" 

"Do  you  think,"  said  Lucretia,  in  a  calm,  cold  voice,  "that 
it  is  for  jealousy,  which  is  love,  that  I  would  murder  all  hope, 
all  peace?  For  we  have  here  (and  she  smote  her  breast) — 
here,  if  not  elsewhere,  a  heaven  and  a  hell!  Son,  I  will  not 
harm  your  father,  except  in  self-defence!  But  tell  me  noth- 
ing that  may  make  the  son  a  party  in  the  father's  doom." 

"The  father  slew  the  mother,"  muttered  Gabriel,  between 
his  clenched  teeth;  "and  to  me,  you  have  well-nigh  supplied 
her  place.  Strike,  if  need  be,  in  her  name!  If  you  are  driven 
to  want  the  arm  of  Pierre  Guillot,  seek  news  of  him  at  the 

Cafe  Dufour,  Rue  S ,  Boulevard  du  Temple.  Be  calm 

now,  I  hear  your  husband's  step." 

A  few  days  more,  and  Gabriel  is  gone!  Wife  and  husband 
are  alone  with  each  other,  Lucretia  has  refused  to  depart, 


tUCREtiA.  169 

Then  that  mute  coma  of  horror!  That  suspense  of  two  foes 
in  the  conflict  of  death — for  the  subtle  prying  eye  of  Olivier 
Dalibard  sees  that  he  himself  is  suspected — farther  he  shuns 
from  sifting!  Glance  fastens  on  glance,  and  then  hurries 
smilingly  away.  From  the  cup  grins  a  skeleton  ;  at  the  board, 
warns  a  spectre.  But  how  kind  still  the  words,  and  how  gentle 
the  tone;  and  they  lie  down  side  by  side  in  the  marriage  bed. 
brain  plotting  against  brain,  heart  loathing  heart.  It  is  a  duel 
of  life  and  death  between  those  sworn  through  life  and  beyond 
death  at  the  altar.  But  it  is  carried  on  with  all  the  forms  and 
courtesies  of  duel  in  the  age  of  chivalry.  No  conjugal  wrangl- 
ing; no  slip  of  the  tongue;  the  oil  is  on  the  surface  of  the 
wave,  the  monsters  in  the  hell  of  the  abyss  war  invisibly  below. 
At  length  a  dull  torpor  creeps  over  the  woman;  she  feels  the 
taint  in  her  veins;  the  slow  victory  is  begun.  What  mattered 
all  her  vigilance  and  caution?  Vainly  glide  from  the  pangs  of 
the  serpent,  his  very  breath  suffices  to  destroy !  Pure  seems  the 
draught  and  wholesome  the  viand — that  master  of  the  science 
of  murder  needs  not  the  means  of  the  bungler!  Then,  keen 
and  strong  from  the  creeping  lethargy  started  the  fierce  instinct 
of  self  and  the  ruthless  impulse  of  revenge.  Not  too  late  yet 
to  escape;  for  those  subtle  banes,  that  are  to  defy  all  detection, 
work  but  slowly  to  their  end. 

One  evening  a  woman,  closely  mantled,  stood  at  watch  by 
the  angle  of  a  wall.  The  light  came  dim  and  muffled  from  the 
window  of  a  caft  hard  at  hand;  the  reflection  slept  amidst  the 
shadows  on  the  dark  pavement,  and,  save  a  solitary  lamp, 
swung  at  a  distance  in  the  vista  over  the  centre  of  the  narrow 
street,  no  ray  broke  the  gloom.  The  night  was  clouded  and 
starless,  the  wind  moaned  in  gusts,  and  the  rain  fell  heavily; 
but  the  gloom  and  the  loneliness  did  not  appall  the  eye,  and 
the  wind  did  not  chill  the  heart,  and  the  rain  fell  unheeded  on 
the  head  of  the  woman  at  her  post.  At  times  she  paused  in 
her  slow,  sentry-like  pace  to  and  fro,  to  look  through  the  win- 
dow of  the  cafe,  and  her  gaze  fell  always  on  one  figure  seated 
apart  from  the  rest.  At  length,  her  pulse  beat  more  quickly, 
and  the  patient  lips  smiled  sternly.  The  figure  had  risen  to 
depart.  A  man  came  out,  and  walked  quickly  up  the  street; 
the  woman  approached  and  when  the  man  was  under  the  single 
lamp  swung  aloft,  he  felt  his  arm  touched;  the  woman  was  at 
his  side,  and  looking  steadily  into  his  face: 

"You  are  Pierre  Guillot,  the  Breton,  the  friend  of  George 
Cadoudal.  Will  you  be  his  avenger?" 

The  Chouan's  first  impulse  had  been   to  place  his  hand   in 


176  LUCRETIA. 

his  vest,  and  something  shone  bright  in  the  lamplight,  clasped 
in  those  iron  fingers.  The  voice  and  the  manner  reassured 
him.  and  he  answered  readily: 

"I  am  he  whom  you  seek,  and    I  only  live  to  avenge." 
"Read,  then,  and  act,"  answered  the  woman,  and  she  placed 

a  paper  in  his  hands. 

******* 

At  Laughton  the  babe  is  on  the  breast  of  the  fair  mother; 
and  the  father  sits  beside  the  bed;  and  mother  and  father  dis- 
pute almost  angrily  whether  mother  or  father,  those  soft  rounded 
features  of  slumbering  infancy  resemble  most.  At  the  red 
house,  near  the  market  town,  there  is  a  hospitable  bustle. 
William  is  home,  earlier  than  usual.  Within  the  last  hour  Su- 
san has  been  thrice  into  every  room.  Husband  and  wife  are 
now  watching  at  the  window.  The  good  Fieldens,  with  a  coach 
full  of  children,  are  expected,  every  moment,  on  a  week's  visit, 
at  least. 

In  the  caft,  in  the  Boulevard  du  Temple,  sit  Pierre  Guillot, 
the  Chouan,  and  another  of  the  old  band  of  brigands,  whom 
George  Cadoudal  had  mustered  in  Paris.  There  is  an  expression 
of  content  on  Guillot' s  countenance;  it  seems  more  open  than 
usual,  and  there  is  a  complacent  smile  on  his  lips.  He  is 
whispering  low  to  his  friend,  in  the  intervals  of  eating,  an  em- 
ployment pursued  with  the  hearty  gusto  of  a  hungry  man. 
But  his  friend  does  not  seem  to  sympathize  with  the  cheerful 
feelings  of  his  comrade;  he  is  pale,  and  there  is  terror  on  his 
face;  and  you  may  see  that  the  journal  in  his  hand  trembles 
like  a  leaf. 

In  the  gardens  of  the  Tuileries  some  score  or  so  of  gossips 
group  together. 

"And  no  news  of  the  murderer?"  asked  one. 

"No;  but  a  man  who  had  been  friend  to  Robespierre  must 
have  made  secret  enemies  enough." 

"Ce  pauvre  Dalibard  !  He  was  not  mixed  up  with  the 
Terrorists,  nevertheless." 

"Ah,  but  the  more  deadly  for  that,  perhaps — a  sly  man  was 
Olivier  Dalibard!" 

"What's  the  matter?"  said  an  employe,  lounging  up  to  the 
group.  "Are  you  talking  of  Olivier  Dalibard?  It  is  but  the 
other  day  he  had  Marsan's  appointment.  He  is  now  to  have 
Pleyel's.  I  heard  it  two  days  ago — a  capital  thing!  Peste,  il 
ira  loin  !  We  shall  see  him  a  senator  soon." 

"Speak  for  yourself,"  quoth  a  ci-devant  Abbe,  with  a  laugh. 
"I  should  be  sorry  to  see  him  again,  soon,  wherever  he  be." 


LtlCRETiA.  Iff 

!      I  don't  understand  you!" 

"Don't  you  know  that  Olivier  Dalibard  is  murdered — found 
stabbed — in  his  own  house,  too!" 

"del!  Pray  tell  me  all  you  know.  His  place,  then,  is  va- 
cant!" 

"Why,  it  seems  that  Dalibard,  who  had  been  brought  up  to 
medicine,  was  still  fond  of  chemical  experiments.  He  hired 
a  room  at  the  top  of  the  house  for  such  scientific  amusements. 
He  was  accustomed  to  spend  part  of  his  nights  there.  They 
found  him  at  morning,  bathed  in  his  blood,  with  three  ghast- 
ly wounds  in  his  side,  and  his  fingers  cut  to  the  bone.  He  had 
struggled  hard  with  the  knife  that  butchered  him." 

"In  his  own  house!"  said  a  lawyer;  "Some  servant  or 
spendthrift  heir!" 

"He  has  no  heir  but  young  Bellanger,  who  will  be  riche  it 
millions,  and  is  now  but  a  schoolboy  at  Lyons.  No ;  it  seems 
that  the  window  was  left  open,  and  that  it  communicates  with 
the  roof-tops.  There  the  murderer  had  entered,  and  by  that 
way  escaped,  for  they  found  the  leads  of  the  gutter  dabbled 
with  blood.  The  next  house  was  uninhabited — easy  enough  to 
get  in  there,  and  \\Qperdu  till  night." 

"Hum,  "said  the  lawyer;  "but  the  assassin  could  only  have 
learned  Dalibard's  habits  from  some  one  in  the  house.  Was 
the  deceased  married!" 

"Oh,  yes;  to  an  Englishwoman." 

"She  had  lovers,  perhaps?" 

"Pooh!  Lovers!  The  happiest  couple  ever  known !  You 
should  have  seen  them  together.  I  dined  there  last  week." 

"It  is  strange!"  said  the  lawyer. 

"And  he  was  getting  on  so  well,"  muttered  a  hungry  look- 
ing man. 

"And  his  place  is  vacant!"  repeated  the  employe",  as  he 
quitted  the  crowd,  abstractedly. 

In  the  house  of  Olivier  Dalibard  sits  Lucretia,  alone,  and  in 
her  own  usual  morning-room.  The  officer  appointed  to  such 
tasks  by  the  French  law  has  performed  his  visit,  and  made  his 
notes,  and  expressed  condolence  with  the  widow,  and  promised 
justice  and  retribution,  and  placed  his  seal  on  the  locks  till  the 
representatives  of  the  heir-at-law  shall  arrive;  and  the  heir-at- 
law  is  the  very  boy  who  had  succeeded  so  unexpectedly 
to  the  wealth  of  Jean  Bellanger,  the  contractor !  But  Lucre- 
tia has  obtained  beforehand  all  she  wishes  to  save  from  the 
rest.  An  open  box  is  on  the  floor,  into  which  her  hand 
drops  noiselessly  a  volume  in  manuscript.  On  the  forefinger 


172 


LUCRETlA. 


of  that  hand  is  a  ring,  larger  and  more  massive  than  those  usual- 
ly worn  by  women;  by  Lucretia  never  worn  before.  Why 
should  that  ring  have  been  selected  with  such  care  from  the 
dead  man's  hoards?  Why  so  precious  the  dull  opal  in  that 
cumbrous  setting?  From  the  hand  the  volume  drops  without 
sound  into  the  box,  as  those  whom  the  secrets  of  the  volume 
instruct  you  to  destroy  may  drop  without  noise  into  the  grave. 
The  trace  of  some  illness,  recent  and  deep,  nor  conquered  yet, 
has  ploughed  lines  in  that  young  countenance,  and  dimmed  the 
light  of  those  searching  eyes.  Yet,  courage !  The  poison  is  ar- 
rested, the  poisoner  is  no  more ;  minds  like  thine,  stern  woman, 
are  cased  in  coffers  of  steel,  and  the  rust  as  yet  has  gnawed  no 
deeper  than  the  surface.  So,  over  that  face  stamped  with 
bodily  suffering,  plays  a  calm  smile  of  triumph.  The  schemer 
has  baffled  the  schemer !  Turn  now  to  the  right,  pass  by  that 
narrow  corridor,  you  are  in  the  marriage  chamber;  the  win- 
dows are  closed.  Tall  tapers  burn  at  the  foot  of  the  bed. 
Now  go  back  to  that  narrow  corridor;  disregarded,  thrown 
aside,  are  a  cloth  and  a  besom;  the  cloth  is  wet  still;  but  here, 
and  there  the  red  stains  are  dry,  and  clotted  as  with  bloody 
glue;  and  the  hairs  of  the  besom  start  up,  torn  and  ragged,  as 
if  the  bristles  had  a  sense  of  some  horror;  as  if  things  inani- 
mate still  partook  of  men's  dread  at  men's  deeds.  If  you 
passed  through  the  corridor,  and  saw  in  the  shadow  of  the  wall 
that  homeliest  of  instruments  cast  away  and  forgotten,  you  would 
smile  at  the  slatternly  housework.  But  if  you  knew  that  a 
corpse  had  been  borne  down  those  stairs  to  the  left — borne  along 
those  floors  to  that  marriage  bed,  with  the  blood  oozing,  and 
gushing,  and  splashing  below,  as  the  bearers  passed  with  their 
burthen,  then,  straight  that  dead  thing  would  take  the  awe  of 
the  dead  being;  it  told  its  own  tale  of  violence  and  murder;  it 
had  dabbled  in  the  gore  of  the  violated  clay;  it  had  become  a 
an  evidence  of  the  crime.  No  wonder  that  its  hairs  bristled 
up,  sharp  and  ragged,  in  the  shadow  of  the  wall! 

The  first  part  of  the  tragedy  ends.  Let  fall  the  curtain. 
When  next  it  rises,  years  will  have  passed  away,  graves  un- 
counted will  have  wrought  fresh  hollows  in  our  merry  sepulchre, 
sweet  earth !  Take  a  sand  from  the  shore,  take  a  drop  from 
the  ocean,  less  than  sand-grain  and  drop  in  man's  planet  one 
Death  and  one  Crime!  On  the  map,  trace  all  oceans,  and 
search  out  every  shore, — more  than  seas,  more  than  lands,  in 
God's  balance  shall  weigh  one  Death  and  one  Crime! 


LUCREtlA.  t;3 

PART   THE   SECOND. 

PROLOGUE  TO  PART  THE  SECOND. 

THE  century  has  advanced:  the  rush  of  the  deluge  has 
ebbed  back,  the  old  landmarks  have  reappeared ;  the  dynasties 
Napoleon  willed  into  life  have  crumbled  to  the  dust;  the 
plough  has  passed  over  Waterloo;  autumn  after  autumn  the 
harvests  have  glittered  on  that  grave  of  an  empire.  Through 
the  immense  ocean  of  universal  change,  we  look  back  on  the 
single  track  which  our  frail  boat  has  cut  through  the  waste. 
As  a  star  shines  impartially  over  the  measureless  expanse, 
though  it  seems  to  gild  but  one  broken  line  to  each  eye ;  so, 
as  our  memory  gazes  on  the  past,  the  light  spreads  not  over  all 
the  breadth  of  the  waste,  where  nations  have  battled,  and  argo- 
sies gone  down ;  it  falls  narrow,  and  confined,  along  the  single 
course  we  have  taken:  we  lean  over  the  small  raft  on  which  we 
float,  and  see  the  sparkles  but  reflected  from  the  waves  that 
it  divides. 

On  the  terrace  at  Laughton,  but  one  step  paces  slowly.  The 
bride  clings  not  now  to  the  bridegroom's  arm.  Though  pale 
and  worn,  it  is  still  the  same  gentle  face;  but  the  blush  of 
woman's  love  has  gone  from  it  evermore. 

Charles  Vernon  (we  call  him  still  by  the  name  in  which  he 
is  best  known  to  us),  sleeps  in  the  vault  of  the  St.  Johns.  He 
had  lived  longer  than  he  himself  had  expected,  than  his  physi- 
cian had  hoped;  lived,  cheerful  and  happy,  amidst  quiet  pur- 
suits and  innocent  excitements.  Three  sons  had  blessed  his 
hearth,  to  mourn  over  his  grave.  But  the  two  elder  were  deli- 
cate and  sickly.  They-  did  not  long  survive  him,  and  died 
within  a  few  months  of  each  other.  The  third  seemed  formed 
of  a  different  mould  and  constitution  from  his  brethren.  To 
him  descended  the  ancient  heritage  of  Laughton,  and  he 
promised  to  enjoy  it  long. 

It  is  Vernon's  widow  who  walks  alone  in  the  stately  terrace; 
sad  still,  for  she  loved  well  the  choice  of  her  youth,  and  she 
misses  yet  the  children  in  the  grave ;  from  the  date  of  Ver- 
non's death,  she  wore  mourning  without  and  within ;  and  the 
sorrows  that  came  later,  broke  more  the  bruised  reed ;  sad 
still,  but  resigned.  One  son  survives;  and  earth  yet  has  the 
troubled  hopes  and  holy  fears  of  affection.  Though  that  son 


174  LTJCRETlA. 

be  afar,  in  sport  or  in  earnest,  in  pleasure  or  in  toil,  working 
out  his  destiny  as  man,  still  that  step  is  less  solitary  than  it 
seems.  When  does  the  son's  image  not  walk  beside  the  moth- 
er? Though  she  lives  in  seclusion,  though  the  gay  world  tempts 
no  more,  the  gay  world  is  yet  linked  to  her  thoughts.  From 
the  distance  she  hears  its  murmurs  in  music.  Her  fancy  still 
mingles  with  the  crowd,  and  follows  one,  to  her  eye,  outshin- 
ing all  the  rest.  Never  vain  herself,  she  is  vain  now  of  an- 
other; and  the  small  triumphs  of  the  young  and  well-born 
seem  trophies  of  renown  to  the  eyes  so  tenderly  deceived. 

In  the  old-fashioned  market  town  still  the  business  goes  on, 
still  the  doors  of  the  bank  open  and  close  every  moment  on  the 
great  day  of  the  week,  but  the  names  over  the  threshold  are 
partially  changed.  The  junior  partner  is  busy  no  more  at  the 
desk,  not  wholly  forgotten — if  his  name  still  is  spoken,  it  is  not 
with  thankfulness  and  praise.  A  something  rests  on  the  name ; 
that  something  which  dims  and  attaints — not  proven,  not  cer- 
tain, but  suspected  and  dubious.  The  head  shakes,  the  voice 
whispers,  and  the  attorney  now  lives  in  the  solid  red  house  at 
the  verge  of  the  town. 

In  the  vicarage,  Time,  the  old  scythe-bearer,  has  not  paused 
from  his  work.  Still  employed  on  Greek  texts,  little  changed, 
save  that  his  hair  is  gray,  and  that  some  lines  in  his  kindly  face 
tell  of  sorrows  as  of  years,  the  Vicar  sits  in  his  parlor,  but  the 
children  no  longer,  blithe-voiced  and  rose-cheeked,  dart  through 
the  rustling  espaliers.  Those  children,  grave  men,  or  staid 
matrons  (save  one  whom  Death  chose,  and  therefore  now  of  all 
best  beloved ! )  are  at  their  posts  in  the  world.  The  young 
ones  are  flown  from  the  nest,  and,  with  anxious  wings,  here  and 
there,  search  food  in  their  turn  for  their  young.  But  the  blithe 
voice  and  rose-cheek  of  the  child  make  not  that  loss  which  the 
hearth  misses  the  most.  From  childhood  to  manhood,  and 
from  manhood  to  departure,  the  natural  changes  are  gradual 
and  prepared.  The  absence  most  missed  is  that  household  life 
which  presided,  which  kept  things  in  order,  and  must  be 
coaxed  if  a  chair  were  displaced.  That  providence  in  trifles, 
that  clasp  of  small  links,  that  dear,  bustling  agency,  now 
pleased,  now  complaining,  dear  alike  in  each  change  of  its 
humor ;  that  active  life  which  has  no  self  of  its  own  ;  like  the 
mind  of  a  poet,  though  its  prose  be  the  humblest,  transferring 
self  into  others,  with  its  right  to  be  cross,  and  its  charter  to 
scold — for  the  motive  is  clear,  it  takes  what  it  loves  too  anx- 
iously to  heart.  The  door  of  the  parlor  is  open,  the  garden 
path  still  passes  before  the  threshold ;  but  no  step  now  has  full 


LUCRETIA.  17$ 

right  to  halt  at  the  door,  and  interrupt  the  grave  thought  on 
Greek  texts ;  no  small  talk  on  details  and  wise  savings  chimes 
in  with  the  wrath  of  Medea.  The  Prudent  Genius  is  gone 
from  the  household;  and  perhaps  as  the  good  scholar  now 
wearily  pauses,  and  looks  out  on  the  silent  garden,  he  would 
have  given  with  joy  all  that  Athens  produced,  from  ^Eschylus 
to  Plato,  to  hear  again  from  the  old  familiar  lips  the  lament  on 
torn  jackets,  or  the  statistical  economy  of  eggs ! 

But  see,  though  the  wife  is  no  more,  though  the  children 
have  departed,  the  Vicar's  home  is  not  utterly  desolate.  See, 
along  the  same  walk  on  which  William  soothed  Susan's  fears, 
and  won  her  consent — see,  what  fairy  advances?  Is  it  Susan 
returned  to  youth?  How  like!  Yet,  look  again,  and  how  un- 
like !  The  same,  the  pure,  candid  regard  ;  the  same,  the  clear, 
limpid  blue  of  the  eye ;  the  same,  that  fair  hue  of  the  hair — 
light,  but  not  auburn — more  subdued,  more  harmonious  than 
that  equivocal  color  which  too  nearly  approaches  to  red.  But 
how  much  more  blooming  and  joyous  than  Susan's  is  that  ex- 
quisite face  in  which  all  Hebe  smiles  forth;  how  much  airier  the 
tread,  light  with  health ;  how  much  rounder,  if  slighter  still,  the 
wave  of  that  undulating  form !  She  smiles ;  her  lips  move — she 
is  conversing  with  herself ;  she  cannot  be  all  silent,  even  when 
alone ;  for  the  sunny  gladness  of  her  nature  must  have  vent 
like  a  bird's.  But  do  not  fancy  that  that  gladness  speaks  the 
levity  which  comes  from  the  absence  of  thought ;  it  is  rather 
from  the  depth  of  thought,  that  it  springs,  as  from  the  depth  of 
a  sea  comes  its  music.  See,  while  she  pauses  and  listens,  with 
her  finger  half  raised  to  her  lip,  as  amidst  that  careless  jubilee 
of  birds  she  hears  a  note  more  grave  and  sustained,  the  night- 
ingale singing,  by  day  (as  sometimes,  though  rarely,  he  is 
heard — perhaps,  because  he  misses  his  mate ;  perhaps,  because 
he  sees  from  his  bower  the  creeping  form  of  some  foe  to  his 
his  race)  ;  see,  as  she  listens  now  to  that  plaintive,  low-chanted 
warble,  how  quickly  the  smile  is  sobered,  how  the  shade,  soft 
and  pensive,  steals  over  the  brow.  It  is  but  the  mystic  sym- 
pathy with  Nature  that  bestows  the  smile  or  the  shade.  In 
that  heart  lightly  moved  beats  the  fine  sense  of  the  poet.  It  is 
the  exquisite  sensibility  of  the  nerves  that  sends  its  blithe  play 
to  those  spirits,  and  from  the  clearness  of  the  atmosphere 
comes,  warm  and  ethereal,  the  ray  of  that  light. 

And  does  the  roof  of  the  pastor  give  shelter  to  Helen  Main- 
waring's  youth?  Has  Death  taken  from  her  the  natural  pro- 
tectors? Those  forms  which  we  saw  so  full  of  youth  and 
youth's  heart,  in  that  very  spot,  has  the  grave  closed  on  them 


1^0  LlJCREftA. 

yet?  Yet!  How  few  attain  to  the  age  of  the  Psalmist! 
Twenty-seven  years  have  passed  since  that  date, — how  often, 
in  those  years,  have  the  dark  doors  opened  for  the  young  as 
for  the  old!  William  Mainwaring  died  first,  careworn  and 
shame-bowed:  the  blot  on  his  name  had  cankered  into  his 
heart.  Susan's  life,  always  precarious,  had  struggled  on,  while 
he  lived,  by  the  strong  power  of  affection  and  will ;  she  would 
not  die,  for  who  then  could  console  him?  But  at  his  death 
the  power  gave  way.  She  lingered,  but  lingered  dyingly  for 
three  years ;  and  then,  for  the  first  time  since  William's  death, 
she  smiled — that  smile  remained  on  the  lips  of  the  corpse. 
They  had  had  many  trials,  that  young  couple  whom  we  left  so 
prosperous  and  happy !  Not  till  many  years  after  their  mar- 
riage had  one  sweet  consoler  been  born  to  them.  In  the  sea- 
son of  poverty,  and  shame,  and  grief,  it  came ;  and  there  was 
no  pride  on  Mainwaring's  brow  when  they  placed  his  first-born 
in  his  arms.  By  her  will  the  widow  consigned  Helen  to  the 
joint  guardianship  of  Mr.  Fielden  and  her  sister:  but  the  latter 
was  abroad,  her  address  unknown,  so  the  Vicar  for  two  years 
had  had  sole  charge  of  the  orphan.  She  was  not  unprovided 
for.  The  sum  that  Susan  brought  to  her  husband  had  been 
long  since  gone,  it  is  true;  lost  in  the  calamity  which  had 
wrecked  William  Mainwaring's  name  and  blighted  his  pros- 
pects; but  Helen's  grandfather,  the  land-agent,  had  died  some 
time  subsequent  to  that  event,  and  indeed,  just  before  Will- 
iam's death.  He  had  never  forgiven  his  son  the  stain  on  his 
name ;  never  assisted,  never  even  seen  him  since  that  fatal  day ; 
but  he  left  to  Helen  a  sum  of  about  £8000,  for  she,  at  least, 
was  innocent.  In  Mr.  Fielden's  eyes,  Helen  was  therefore  an 
heiress.  And  who  amongst  his  small  range  of  acquaintance 
was  good  enough  for  her,  not  only  so  richly  portioned,  but  so 
lovely;  accomplished  too,  for  her  parents  had  of  late  years 
lived  chiefly  in  France,  and  languages  there  are  easily  learned, 
and  masters  cheap?  Mr.  Fielden  knew  but  one,  whom  Provi- 
dence had  also  consigned  to  his  charge — the  supposed  son  of 
his  old  pupil  Ardworth ;  but  though  a  tender  affection  existed 
between  the  two  young  persons,  it  seemed  too  like  that  of 
brother  and  sister  to  afford  much  ground  for  Mr.  Fielden's 
anxiety  or  hope. 

From  his  window  the  Vicar  observed  the  still  attitude  of  the 
young  orphan  for  a  few  moments,  then  he  pushed  aside  his 
books,  rose,  and  approached  her.  At  the  sound  of  his  tread  she 
awoke  from  her  revery,  and  bounded  lightly  towards  him. 

"Ah,  you  would  not  see  me  before!"  she  said,  in  a  voice  in 


LUCRETIA.  177 

which  there  was  the  slightest  possible  foreign  accent,  which 
betrayed  the  country  in  which  her  childhood  had  been  passed ; 
"I  peeped  in  twice  at  the  window.  I  wanted  you  so  much,  to 
walk  to  the  village.  But  you  will  come  now,  will  you  not?" 
added  the  girl  coaxingly,  as  she  looked  up  at  him  under  the 
shade  of  her  straw  hat. 

"And  what  do  you  want  in  the  village,  my  pretty  Helen?" 

"Why  you  know  it  is  Fair  day,  and  you  promised  Bessie 
that  you  would  buy  her  a  fairing — to  say  nothing  of  me." 

"Very  true,  and  I  ought  to  look  in;  it  will  help  to  keep  the 
poor  people  from  drinking.  A  clergyman  should  mix  with  his 
parishioners  in  their  holidays.  We  must  not  associate  our  office 
only  with  grief,  and  sickness,  and  preaching.  We  will  go. 
And  what  fairing  are  you  to  have?" 

"Oh,  something  very  brilliant,  I  promise  you!  I  have 
formed  grand  notions  of  a  fair.  I  am  sure  it  must  be  like  the 
bazaars  we  read  of  last  night,  in  that  charming  'Tour  in  the 
East." 

The  Vicar  smiled,  half-benignly,  half-anxiously.  "My  dear 
child,  it  is  so  like  you  to  suppose  a  village  fair  must  be  an  east- 
ern bazaar.  If  you  always  thus  judge  of  things  by  your  fancy, 
how  this  sober  world  will  deceive  you,  poor  Helen !" 

"It  is  not  my  fault — ne  me  grondez  pas,  mtchant"  ans- 
wered Helen,  hanging  her  head.  "But  come,  sir,  allow  at 
least,  that  if  I  let  my  romance,  as  you  call  it,  run  away  with  me 
now  and  then,  I  can  still  content  myself  with  the  reality. 
What,  you  shake  your  head  still!  Don't  you  remember  the 
sparrow?" 

"Ha!  hc..?  yes — the  sparrow  that  the  peddler  sold  you  for 
a  goldfinch ;  and  you  were  so  proud  of  your  purchase,  and 
wondered  so  much  why  you  could  not  coax  the  goldfinch  to 
sing,  till  at  last  the  paint  wore  away,  and  it  was  only  a  poor 
little  sparrow!" 

"Go  on!  Confess;  did  I  fret,  then?  Was  I  not  as  pleased 
with  my  dear  sparrow  as  I  should  have  been  with  the  prettiest 
goldfinch  that  ever  sang?  Does  not  the  sparrow  follow  me 
about,  and  nestle  on  my  shoulder,  dear  little  thing!  And  I 
was  right  after  all ;  for  if  I  had  not  fancied  it  a  goldfinch,  I 
should  not  have  bought  it,  perhaps.  But  now  I  would  not 
change  it  for  a  goldfinch ;  no,  not  even  for  that  nightingale  I 
heard  just  now.  So  let  me  still  fancy  the  poor  fair  a  bazaar;  it 
is  a  double  pleasure,  first  to  fancy  the  bazaar  and  then  to  be 
surprised  at  the  fair." 

"You.  argue  well,"  said  the  Vicar,  as  they  now  entered  the 


178  LUCRETIA. 

village.  "I  really  think,  in  spite  of  all  your  turn  for  poetry, 
and  Goldsmith,  and  Cowper,  that  you  would  take  as  kindly  to 
mathematics  as  your  cousin  John  Ard  worth,  poor  lad!" 

"Not  if  mathematics  have  made  him  so  grave,  and  so  churl- 
ish, I  was  going  to  say  but  that  word  does  him  wrong.  Dear 
cousin,  so  kind  and  so  rough!" 

"It  is  not  mathematics  that  are  to  blame  if  he  is  grave  and 
absorbed,"  said  the  Vicar,  with  a  sigh;  "it  is  the  two  cares 
that  gnaw  most,  poverty  and  ambition." 

"Nay  do  not  sigh:  it  must  be  such  a  pleasure  to  feel  as  he 
does,  that  one  must  triumph  at  last!" 

"Umph!  John  must  have  nearly  reached  London  by  this 
time,"  said  Mr.  Fielden,  "for  he  is  a  stout  walker,  and  this  is 
the  third  day  since  he  left  us.  Well,  now  that  he  is  about 
fairly  to  be  called  to  the  bar,  I  hope  that  his  fever  will  cool, 
and  he  will  settle  calmly  to  work.  I  have  felt  great  pain  for 
him  during  this  last  visit." 

"Pain!     But  why?" 

"My  dear,  do  you  remember  what  I  read  out  to  you  both 
from  Sir  William  Temple,  the  night  before  John  left  us?" 

Helen  put  her  hand  to  her  brow,  and  with  a  readiness  which 
showed  a  memory  equally  quick  and  retentive,  replied:  "Yes; 
was  it  not  to  this  effect :  I  am  not  sure  of  the  exact  words : 
'To  have  something  we  have  not,  and  be  something  we  are 
not,  is  the  root  of  all  evil.' ' 

"Well  remembered,  my  darling!  " 

"Ah,  but,"  said  Helen  archly,  "I  remember  too  what  my 
cousin  replied:  'If  Sir  William  Temple  had  practised  his  the- 
ory, he  would  not  have  been  ambassador  at  the  Hague,  or — '  ' 

"Pshaw!  The  boy's  always  ready  enough  with  his  an- 
swers," interrupted  Mr.  Fielden,  rather  petulantly.  "There's 
the  fair,  my  dear ;  more  in  your  way,  I  see,  than  Sir  William 
Temple's  philosophy." 

And  Helen  was  right:  the  fair  was  no  eastern  bazaar;  but 
how  delighted  that  young,  impressionable  mind  was,  notwith- 
standing! delighted  with  the  swings  and  the  roundabouts,  the 
shows,  the  booths,  even  down  to  the  gilt  gingerbread  kings  and 
queens.  All  minds  genuinely  poetical  are  peculiarly  suscepti- 
ble to  movement ;  that  is,  to  the  excitement  of  numbers.  If 
the  movement  is  sincerely  joyous,  as  in  the  mirth  of  a  village 
holiday,  such  a  nature  shares  insensibly  in  the  joy.  But  if  the 
movement  is  a  false  and  spurious  gayety,  as  in  a  state  ball, 
where  the  impassive  face  and  languid  step  are  out  of  harmony 
with  the  evident  object  of  the  scene,  then  the  nature  we  speak 


LUCRETIA.  179 

of  feels  chilled  and  dejected.  Hence  it  really  is,  that  the 
more  delicate  and  ideal  order  of  minds  soon  grow  inexpressibly 
weary  of  the  hack  routine  of  what  are  called  fashionable  pleas- 
ures. Hence  the  same  person  most  alive  to  a  dance  on  the 
green,  would  be  without  enjoyment  at  Almack's.  It  is  not 
because  one  scene  is  a  village  green,  and  the  other  a  room  in 
King  Street ;  nor  is  it  because  the  actors  in  the  one  are  of  the 
humble,  in  the  others  of  the  noble  class,  but  simply  because 
the  enjoyment  in  the  first  is  visible  and  hearty,  because 
in  the  other  it  is  a  listless  and  melancholy  pretence.  Helen 
fancied  it  was  the  swings  and  the  booths  that  gave  her  that  in- 
nocent exhilaration — it  was  not  so ;  it  was  the  unconscious 
sympathy  with  the  crowd  around  her.  When  the  poetical 
nature  quits  its  own  dreams  for  the  actual  world,  it  enters  and 
transfuses  itself  into  the  hearts  and  humors  of  others.  The 
two  wings  of  that  spirit  which  we  call  Genius  are  revery  and 
sympathy.  But  poor  little  Helen  had  no  idea  that  she  had 
genius.  Whether  chasing  the  butterfly  or  talking  fond  fan- 
cies to  her  birds,  or  whether,  with  earnest,  musing  eyes,  watch- 
ing the  stars  come  forth,  and  the  dark  pine  trees  gleam  into 
silver;  whether  with  airy  day-dreams  and  credulous  wonder 
pouring  over  the  magic  tales  of  Mirglip  or  Aladdin,  or  whether 
spellbound  to  awe  by  the  solemn  woes  of  Lear,  or  following 
the  blind  great  bard  into  "the  heaven  of  heavens,  an  earthly 
guest,  to  draw  empyreal  air,"  she  obeyed  but  the  honest  and 
varying  impulse  in  each  change  of  her  pliant  mood ;  and  would 
have  ascribed  with  genuine  humility  to  the  vagaries  of  child- 
hood, that  prompt  gathering  of  pleasure,  that  quick  shifting 
sport  of  the  fancy  by  which  Nature  binds  to  itself,  in  chains 
undulating  as  melody,  the  lively  senses  of  genius. 

While  Helen,  leaning  on  the  Vicar's  arm,  thus  surrendered 
herself  to  the  innocent  excitement  of  the  moment,  the  Vicar 
himself  smiled  and  nodded  to  his  parishioners,  or  paused  to 
exchange  a  friendly  word  or  two  with  the  youngest  or  the  eld- 
est loiterers  (those  two  extremes  of  mortality  which  the  Church 
so  tenderly  unites),  whom  the  scene  drew  to  its  tempting  vor- 
tex, when  a  rough-haired  lad,  with  a  leather  bag  strapped 
across  his  waist,  turned  from  one  of  the  gingerbread  booths, 
and  touching  his  hat,  said:  "Please  you,  sir,  I  was  a-com- 
ing  to  your  house  with  a  letter." 

The  Vicar's  correspondence  was  confined  and  rare,  despite 
his  distant  children,  for  letters  but  a  few  years  ago  were  costly 
luxuries  to  persons  of  narrow  income,  and  therefore  the  juve- 
nile letter-carrier  who  plied  between  the  post  town  and  the  vi* 


I  So  LUCRETIA. 

lage  failed  to  excite  in  his  breast  that  indignation  for  being  an 
hour  or  more  behind  his  time,  which  would  have  animated  one 
to  whom  the  post  brings  the  usual  event  of  the  day.  He  took 
the  letter  from  the  boy's  hand,  and  paid  for  it  with  a  thrifty 
sigh,  as  he  glanced  at  a  handwriting  unfamiliar  to  him — per- 
haps from  some  clergyman  poorer  than  himself.  However, 
that  was  not  the  place  to  read  letters,  so  he  put  the  epistle  in 
his  pocket,  until  Helen,  who  watched  his  countenance  to  see 
when  he  grew  tired  of  the  scene,  kindly  proposed  to  return 
home.  As  they  gained  a  stile  half-way,  Mr.  Fielden  remem- 
bered his  letter,  took  it  forth,  and  put  on  his  spectacles. 
Helen  stooped  over  the  bank  to  gather  violets;  the  Vicar 
seated  himself  on  the  stile.  As  he  again  looked  at  the  address, 
the  handwriting,  before  unfamiliar,  seemed  to  grow  indis- 
tinctly on  his  recollection.  That  bold,  firm  hand — thin  and 
fine  as  woman's,  but  large  and  regular  as  man's — was  too  pecu- 
liar to  be  forgotten.  He  uttered  a  brief  exclamation  of  sur- 
prise and  recognition,  and  hastily  broke  the  seal.  The  con- 
tents ran  thus : 
"DEAR  SIR: 

So  many  years  have  passed  since  any  communication  has 
taken  place  between  us,  that  the  name  of  Lucretia  Dalibard 
will  seem  more  strange  to  you  than  that  of  Lucretia  Clavering. 
I  have  recently  returned  to  England  after  long  residence 
abroad.  I  perceive  by  my  deceased  sister's  will  that  she  has 
confided  her  only  daughter  to  my  guardianship,  conjointly  with 
yourself.  I  am  anxious  to  participate  in  that  tender  charge. 
I  am  alone  in  the  world,  an  habitual  sufferer,  afflicted  with  a 
partial  paralysis  that  deprives  me  of  the  use  of  my  limbs.  In 
such  circumstances,  it  is  the  more  natural  that  I  should  turn  to 
the  only  relative  left  me.  My  journey  to  England  has  so  ex- 
hausted my  strength,  and  all  movement  is  so  painful,  that  I 
must  request  you  to  excuse  me  for  not  coming  in  person  for  my 
niece.  Your  benevolence,  however,  will,  I  am  sure,  prompt 
you  to  afford  me  the  comfort  of  her  society,  as  soon  as  you  can 
contrive  some  suitable  arrangement  for  her  journey.  Begging 
you  to  express  to  Helen,  in  my  name,  the  assurance  of  such  a 
welcome  as  is  due  from  me  to  my  sister's  child,  and  waiting 
with  great  anxiety  your  reply,  I  am,  dear  sir,  your  very  faith- 
ful servant,  LUCRETIA  DALIBARD. 

"P.  S, — I  can  scarcely  venture  to  ask  you  to  bring  Helen 
yourself  to  town,  but  I  should  be  glad  if  other  inducements  to 
take  the  journey  afforded  me  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  once 
again.  I  am  anxious,  in  addition  to  such  details  of  my  late 


LUCRET1A.  l8l 

sister  as  you  may  be  enabled  to  give  me,  to  learn  something  of 
the  history  of  her  connection,  Mr.  Ardworth,  in  whom  I  felt 
much  interested  years  ago,  and  who,  I  am  recently  informed, 
left  an  infant,  his  supposed  son,  under  your  care.  So  long 
absent  from  England,  how  much  have  I  to  learn,  and  how  little 
the  mere  gravestones  tell  us  of  the  dead!" 

While  the  Vicar  is  absorbed  in  this  letter,  equally  unwelcome 
and  unexpected;  while,  unconscious  as  the  daughter  of  Ceres 
gathering  flowers  when  the  Hell  King  drew  near,  of  the  change 
that  awaited  her  and  the  grim  presence  that  approached  on  her 
fate,  Helen  bends  still  over  the  bank  odorous  with  shrinking 
violets,  we  turn  where  the  new  generation  equally  invites  our 
gaze,  and  make  our  first  acquaintance  with  two  persons  con- 
nected with  the  progress  of  our  tale. 

******* 

The  britska  stopped.  The  servant,  who  had  been  gradually 
accumalating  present  dust  and  future  rheumatisms  on  the  "bad 
eminence"  of  a  rumble-tumble,  exposed  to  the  nipping  airs  of 
an  English  sky,  leapt  to  the  ground,  and  opened  the  carriage 
door. 

"This  is  the  best  place  for  the  view,  sir — a  little  to  the  right." 

Percival  St.  John  threw  aside  his  book  (a  volume  of  Voy- 
ages), whistled  to  a  spaniel  dozing  by  his  side  and  descended 
lightly.  Light  was  the  step  of  the  young  man,  and  merry  was 
the  bark  of  the  dog,  as  it  chased  from  the  road  the  startled  spar- 
row, rising  high  into  the  clear  air — iavorites  of  Nature  both, 
man  and  dog! 

You  had  but  to  glance  at  Percival  v$t.  John  to  know  at  once 
that  he  was  of  the  race  that  toils  not  •  the  assured  step  spoke 
confidence  in  the  world's  fair  smile.  No  care  for  the  morrow 
dimmed  the  bold  eye  and  the  radiant  bloom. 

About  the  middle  height,  his  slight  figure,  yet  undeveloped, 
seemed  not  to  have  attained  to  its  full  growth;  the  darkening 
down  only  just  shaded  a  cheek  somewhat  sunburned,  though 
naturally  fair,  round  which  locks  black  as  jet  played  sportively 
in  the  fresh  air;  about  him  altogether  there  was  the  inexpress- 
ible charm  of  happy  youth.  He  scarcely  looked  sixteen, 
though  above  four  years  older;  but  for  his  firm  though  careless 
step,  and  the  open  fearlessness  of  his  frank  eye,  you  might 
have  almost  taken  him  for  a  girl  in  men's  clothes,  not  from 
effeminacy  of  feature,  but  from  the  sparkling  bloom  of  his 
youth,  and  from  his  unmistakable  newness  to  the  cares  and 
«ins  of  man.  A  more  delightful  vision  of  ingenuous  boyhood 


182  LtJCRETlA. 

opening  into  life,  under  happy  auspices,  never  inspired  with 
pleased  yet  melancholy  interest  the  eye  of  half-envious,  half- 
pitying  age. 

"And  that,"  mused  Percival  St.  John,  "that  is  London! 
Oh,  for  the  Diable  Boiteux  to  unroof  me  those  distant  houses, 
and  show  me  the  pleasures  that  lurk  within !  Ah,  what  long 
letters  I  shall  have  to  write  home !  How  the  dear  old  Captain 
will  laugh  over  them,  and  how  my  dear  good  mother  will  put 
down  her  work  and  sigh!  Home!  Urn,  I  miss  it  already. 
How  strange  and  grim,  after  all,  the  huge  city  seems!" 

His  glove  fell  to  the  ground,  and  his  spaniel  mumbled  it  into 
shreds.  The  young  man  laughed,  and,  throwing  himself  on 
the  grass,  played  gayly  with  the  dog. 

"Fie,  Beau,  sir,  fie;  gloves  are  indigestible.  Restrain  your 
appetite,  and  we'll  lunch  together  at  the  Clarendon." 

At  this  moment  there  arrived  at  the  same  patch  of  green- 
sward a  pedestrian  some  years  older  than  Percival  St.  John: 
a  tall,  muscular,  raw-boned,  dust-covered,  travel-stained  pedes- 
trian; one  of  your  pedestrians  in  good  earnest;  no  amateur  in 
neat  gambroon,  manufactured  by  Inkson,  who  leaves  his  car- 
riage behind  him,  and  walks  on  with  his  fishing-rod  by  choice, 
but  a  sturdy  wanderer,  with  thick  shoes  and  strapless  trousers, 
a  threadbare  coat  and  a  knapsack  at  his  back.  Yet  withal,  the 
young  man  had  the  air  of  a  gentleman;  not  gentleman  as  the 
word  is  understood  in  St.  James's,  the  gentleman  of  the  noble 
and  idle  class,  but  the  gentleman  as  the  title  is  accorded,  by 
courtesy,  to  all  to  whom  both  education  and  the  habit  of  mixing 
with  educated  persons  gives  a  claim  to  the  distinction  and  im- 
parts an  air  of  refinement.  The  new-comer  was  strongly  built, 
at  once  lean  and  large;  far  more  strongly  built  than  Percival 
St.  John,  but  without  his  look  of  cheerful  and  comely  health. 
His  complexion  had  not  the  florid  hue  that  should  have  ac- 
companied that  strength  of  body;  it  was  pale,  though  not  sick- 
ly; the  expression  grave,  the  lines  deep,  the  face  strongly 
marked.  By  his  side  trotted  painfully  a  wiry,  yellowish,  footsore 
Scotch  terrier.  Beau  sprang  from  his  master's  caress,  cocked 
his  handsome  head  on  one  side,  and  suspended  in  silent  halt 
his  right  forepaw.  Percival  cast  over  his  left  shoulder  a  care- 
less glance  at  the  intruder.  The  last  heeded  neither  Beau  nor 
Percival.  He  slipped  his  knapsack  to  the  ground,  and  the 
Scotch  terrier  sank  upon  it,  and  curled  himself  up  into  a  ball. 
The  wayfarer  folded  his  arms  tightly  upon  his  breast,  heaved  a 
short,  unquiet  sigh,  and  cast  over  the  giant  city,  from  under 
deep-pent,  lowering  brows,  a  look  so  earnest,  so  searching,  so 


LUCRET1A.  183 

full  of  inexpressible,  dogged,  determined  power,  that  Percival, 
roused  out  of  his  gay  indifference,  rose  and  regarded  him  with 
curious  interest. 

In  the  mean  while  Beau  had  very  leisurely  approached  the 
bilious-looking  terrier;  and  after  walking  three  times  round 
him,  with  a  stare  and  a  small  sniff  of  superb  impertinence,  halted 
with  great  composure,  and  lifting  his  hind  leg — O  Beau,  Beau, 
Beau !  your  historian  blushes  for  your  breeding,  and,  like 
Sterne's  recording  angel,  drops  a  tear  upon  the  stain  which 
washes  it  from  the  register — but  not,  alas !  from  the  back  of  the 
bilious  terrier!  The  space  around  was  wide,  Beau.  You  had 
all  the  world  to  choose;  why  select  so  specially  for  insult  the  sin- 
gle spot  on  which  reposed  the  worn-out  and  unoffending?  O 
dainty  Beau !  O  dainty  world !  Own  the  truth,  both  of  ye. 
There  is  something  irresistibly  provocative  of  insult  in  the 
back  of  a  shabby-looking  dog! 

The  poor  terrier,  used  to  affronts,  raised  its  heavy  eyelids, 
and  shot  the  gleam  of  just  indignation  from  its  dark  eyes.  But 
it  neither  stirred  nor  growled,  and  Beau,  extremely  pleased 
with  his  achievement,  wagged  his  tail  in  triumph,  and  returned 
to  his  master — perhaps,  in  parliamentary  phrase,  to  "report 
proceedings,  and  ask  leave  to  sit  again." 

"I  wonder,"  soliloquized  Percival  St.  John,  "what  that  poor 
fellow  is  thinking  of;  perhaps  he  is  poor,  indeed !  No  doubt 
of  it,  now  I  look  again.  And  I  so  rich!  I  should  like'  to — 
hem — let's  see  what  he's  made  of." 

Herewith  Percival  approached,  and  with  all  a  boy's  half-bash- 
ful, half-saucy  frankness,  said:  "A  fine  prospect,  sir." 

The  pedestrian  started,  and  threw  a  rapid  glance  over  the 
brilliant  figure  that  accosted  him.  Percival  St.  John  was  not 
to  be  abashed  by  stern  looks;  but  that  glance  might  have 
abashed  many  a  more  experienced  man.  The  glance  of  a 
squire  upon  a  corn-law  missionary,  of  a  Crockford  dandy  upon 
a  Regent  Street  tiger,  could  not  have  been  more  disdainful. 

"Tush!"  said  the  pedestrian  rudely,  and  turned  upon  his 
heel. 

Percival  colored,  and,  shall  we  own  it?  was  boy  enough  to 
double  his  fist.  Little  would  he  have  been  deterred  by  the 
brawn  of  those  great  arms  and  the  girth  of  that  Herculean  chest, 
if  he  had  been  quite  sure  that  it  was  a  proper  thing  to  resent 
pugilistically  so  discourteous  a  monosyllable.  The  "tush!" 
stuck  greatly  in  his  throat.  But  the  man,  now  removed  to  the 
farther  verge  of  the  hill,  looked  so  tranquil  and  so  lost  in 
thought,  that  the  short  lived  anger  died. 


I§4  LtiCRETiA. 

"And  after  all,  if  I  was  as  poor  as  he  looks,  I  dare  say  I 
should  be  just  as  proud,"  muttered  Percival.  "However,  it's 
his  own  fault  if  he  goes  to  London  on  foot,  when  I  might,  at 
least,  have  given  him  a  lift.  Come,  Beau,  sir." 

With  his  face  still  a  little  flushed,  and  his  hat,  unconsciously, 
cocked  fiercely  on  one  side,  Percy  sauntered  back  to  his  britska. 

As  in  a  whirl  of  dust  the  light  carriage  was  borne  by  the  four 
posters  down  the  hill,  the  pedestrian  turned  for  an  instant  from 
the  view  before  to  the  cloud  behind,  and  muttered:  "Ay,  a 
fine  prospect  for  the  rich — a  noble  field  for  the  poor!"  The 
tone  in  which  those  words  were  said  told  volumes;  there,  spoke 
the  pride,  the  hope,  the  energy,  the  ambition,  which  make  youth 
laborious,  manhood  prosperous,  age  renowned. 

The  stranger  then  threw  himself  on  the  sward,  and  continued 
his  silent  and  intent  contemplation  till  the  clouds  grew  red  in 
the  west.  When  then  he  rose,  his  eye  was  bright,  his  mien 
erect,  and  a  smile,  playing  round  his  firm,  full  lips,  stole  the 
moody  sternness  from  his  hard  face.  Throwing  his  knapsack 
once  more  on  his  back,  John  Ardworth  went  resolutely  on  to 
the  great  vortex. 

CHAPTER  I. 

THE    CORONATION. 

THE  eighth  of  September,  1831,  was  a  holiday  in  London. 
William  the  Fourth  received  the  crown  of  his  ancestors  in  that 
mighty  church  in  which  the  most  impressive  monitors  to  human 
pomp  are  the  monuments  of  the  dead:  the  dust  of  conquerors 
and  statesmen,  of  the  wise  heads  and  the  bold  hands  that  had 
guarded  the  thrones  of  departed  kings,  slept  around;  and  the 
great  men  of  the  modern  time  were  assembled  in  homage  to  the 
monarch  to  whom  the  powers  and  the  liberty  of  generations 
had  bequeathed  an  empire  in  which  the  sun  never  sets.  In  the 
Abbey,  thinking  little  of  the  past,  caring  little  for  the  future, 
the  immense  audience  gazed  eagerly  on  the  pageant  that  occurs 
but  once  in  that  division  of  history,  the  lifetime  of  a  king.  The 
assemblage  was  brilliant  and  imposing.  The  galleries  sparkled 
with  the  gems  of  women  who  still  upheld  the  celebrity  for  form 
and  feature  which,  from  the  remotest  times,  has  been  awarded 
to  the  great  English  race.  Below,  in  their  robes  and  coronets, 
were  men  who  neither  in  the  senate  nor  the  field  have  shamed 
their  fathers.  Conspicuous  amongst  all,  for  grandeur  of  mien 
and  stature,  towered  the  brothers  of  the  king;  while  command- 
ing yet  more  the  universal  gaze,  were  seen,  here  the  eagle  fea' 


LUCRETIA.  185 

tures  of  the  old  hero  of  Waterloo,  and  there  the  majestic  brow 
of  the  haughty  statesman  who  was  leading  the  people  (while 
the  last  of  the  Bourbons,  whom  Waterloo  had  restored  to  the 
Tuileries,  had  left  the  orb  and  purple  to  the  kindred  house,  so 
fatal  to  his  name)  through  a  stormy  and  perilous  transition  to 
a  bloodless  revolution  and  a  new  charter. 

Tier  upon  tier  in  the  division  set  apart  for  them  the  mem- 
bers of  the  Lower  House  moved  and  murmured  above  the 
pageant;  and  the  coronation  of  the  new  sovereign  was  con- 
nected in  their  minds  with  the  great  measure,  which,  still  un- 
decided, made  at  that  time  a  link  between  the  People  and  the 
King;  and  arrayed  against  both,  if  not,  indeed,  the  real  Aris- 
tocracy, at  least  the  Chamber  recognized  by  the  Constitution 
as  its  representative.  Without  the  space  was  one  dense  mass. 
Houses,  from  balcony  to  balcony,  window  to  window,  were 
filled  as  some  immense  theatre.  Up,  through  the  long  thorough- 
fare to  Whitehall,  the  eye  saw  that  audience — A  PEOPLE;  and 
the  gaze  was  bounded  at  the  spot  where  Charles  the  First  had 
passed  from  the  banquet-house  to  the  scaffold. 

The  ceremony  was  over;  the  procession  had  swept  slowly 
by;  the  last  huzza  had  died  away.  And,  after  staring  awhile 
upon  Orator  Hunt,  who  had  clambered  up  the  iron  palisade 
near  Westminster  Hall,  to  exhibit  his  goodly  person  in  his 
court  attire,  the  serried  crowds,  hurrying  from  the  shower 
which  then  unseasonably  descended,  broke  into  large  masses  or 
lengthening  columns. 

In  that  part  of  London  which  may  be  said  to  form  a  boundary 
between  its  old  and  its  new  world,  by  which,  on  the  one  hand, 
you  pass  to  Westminster,  or  through  that  gorge  of  the  Strand 
which  leads  along  endless  rows  of  shops  that  have  grown  up  on 
the  sites  of  the  ancient  halls  of  the  Salisburys  and  the  Ex«:ters, 
the  Buckinghams  and  Southamptons,  to  the  heart  of  the  City, 
built  around  the  primeval  palace  of  the  "Tower,"  while,  on 
the  other  hand,  you  pass  into  the  new  city  of  aristocracy  and 
letters,  of  art  and  fashion,  embracing  the  whilom  chase  of 
Marylebone,  and  the  once  sedge-grown  waters  of  Pimlico;  by 
this  ignoble  boundary  (the  crossing  from  the  Opera  House, 
at  the  bottom  of  the  Haymarket  to  the  commencement  of  Char- 
ing Cross),  stood  a  person  whose  discontented  countenance  was 
in  singular  contrast  with  the  general  gayety  and  animation  of 
the  day.  This  person,  O  gentle  reader — this  sour,  querulous, 
discontented  person — was  a  king,  loo,  in  his  own  walk !  None 
might  dispute  it.  He  feared  no  rebel;  he  was  harassed  by  no 
reform;  he  ruled  without  ministers;  tools  he  had  ;  but,  when 


l86  LUCRETIA. 

worn  out,  he  replaced  them  without  a  pension  or  a  sigh.  He 
lived  by  taxes,  but  they  were  voluntary;  and  his  Civil  List 
was  supplied,  without  demand  for  the  redress  of  grievances. 
This  person,  nevertheless,  not  deposed,  was  suspended  from  his 
empire  for  the  day.  He  was  pushed  aside;  he  was  forgotten. 
He  was  not  distinct  from  the  crowd.  Like  Titus,  he  had  lost 
a  day — his  vocation  was  gone.  This  person  was  the  Sweeper 
of  the  Crossing! 

He  was  a  character!  He  was  young,  in  the  fairest  prime  of 
youth;  but  it  was  the  face  of  an  old  man  on  young  shoulders. 
His  hair  was  long,  thin,  and  prematurely  streaked  with  gray; 
his  face  was  pale,  and  deeply  furrowed;  his  eyes  hollow,  and 
their  stare  gleamed,  cold  and  stolid,  under  his  bent  and  shaggy 
brows.  The  figure  was  at  once  fragile  and  ungainly,  and  the 
narrow  shoulders  curved  in  a  perpetual  stoop.  It  was  a  person 
once  noticed  that  you  would  easily  remember,  and  associate 
with  some  undefined,  painful  impression.  The  manner  was 
humble,  but  not  meek;  the  voice  was  whining,  but  without  pathos. 
There  was  a  meagre,  passionless  dullness  about  the  aspect, 
though,  at  times,  it  quickened  into  a  kind  of  avid  acuteness.  No 
one  knew  by  what  human  parentage  this  personage  came  into 
the  world.  He  had  been  reared  by  the  charity  of  a  stranger, 
crept  through  childhood,  and  misery,  and  rags  mysteriously; 
and  suddenly  succeeded  an  old  defunct  negro  in  the  profitable 
crossing  whereat  he  is  now  standing.  All  education  was  un- 
known to  him,  so  was  all  love.  In  those  festive  haunts  at 
St.  Giles's,  where  he  who  would  see  "Life  in  London"  may 
often  discover  the  boy  who  has  held  his  horse  in  the  morning, 
dancing  merrily  with  his  chosen  damsel  at  night,  our  sweeper's 
character  was  austere  as  Charles  the  Twelfth's!  And  the 
poor  creature  had  his  good  qualities!  He  was  sensitively 
alive  to  kindness — little  enough  had  been  shown  him  to  make 
the  luxury  the  more  prized  from  its  rarity!  Though  fond  of 
money  he  would  part  with  it  (we  do  not  say  cheerfully,  but 
part  with  it  still)  not  to  mere  want,  indeed  (for  he  had  been 
too  pinched  and  starved  himself,  and  had  grown  too  obtuse  to 
pinching  and  to  starving,  for  the  sensitiveness  that  prompts  to 
charity),  but  to  any  of  his  companions  who  had  done  him  a 
good  service,  or  who  had  even  warmed  his  dull  heart  by  a 
friendly  smile ;  he  was  honest,  too — honest  to  the  backbone. 
You  might  have  trusted  him  with  gold  untold.  Through  the 
heavy  clod  which  man's  care  had  not  moulded,  nor  books  en- 
lightened, nor  the  priest's  solemn  lore  informed,  still  natural 
rays  from  the  great  parent  source  of  Deity  struggled,  fitful  and 


LUCRETIA.  187 

dim.  He  had  no  lawful  name;  none  knew  if  sponsors  had 
ever  stood  security  for  his  sins  at  the  sacred  font.  But  he  had 
christened  himself  by  the  strange,  unchristianlike  name  of 
"Beck."  There  he  was  then,  seemingly  without  origin,  pa- 
rentage, or  kindred  tie,  a  lonesome,  squalid,  bloodless  thing, 
which  the  great  monster,  London,  seemed  to  have  spawned 
forth  of  its  own  self;  one  of  its  sickly,  miserable,  rickety  off- 
spring, whom  it  puts  out  at  nurse  to  Penury,  at  school  to  Star- 
vation, and,  finally,  and  literally,  gives  them  stones  for  bread, 
with  the  option  of  the  gallows  or  the  dunghill,  when  the  des- 
perate offspring  calls  on  the  giant  mother  for  return  and  home! 

And  this  creature  did  love  something;  loved,  perhaps,  some 
fellow-being — of  that  hereafter,  when  we  dive  into  the  secrets 
of  his  privacy.  Meanwhile,  openly  and  frankly,  he  loved  his 
crossing ;  he  was  proud  of  his  crossing ;  he  was  grateful  to  his 
crossing.  God  help  thee,  son  of  the  street,  why  not!  He  had 
in  it  a  double  affection ;  that  of  serving  and  being  served.  He 
kept  the  crossing — if  the  crossing  kept  him.  He  smiled  at 
times  to  himself  when  he  saw  it  lie  fair  and  brilliant  amidst  the 
mire  around;  it  bestowed  on  him  a  sense  of  property!  What  a 
man  may  feel  for  a  fine  estate  in  a  ring  fence,  Beck  felt  for  that 
isthmus  of  the  kennel  which  was  subject  to  his  broom !  The 
Coronation  had  made  one  rebellious  spirit  when  it  swept  the 
sweeper  from  his  crossing. 

He  stood  then  half  under  the  colonnade  of  the  Opera  House, 
as  the  crowd  now  rapidly  grew  thinner  and  more  scattered: 
and  when  the  last  carriage  of  a  long  string  of  vehicles  had 
passed  by,  he  muttered  audibly: 

"It'll  take  a  deal  of  pains  to  make  she  right  agin!" 

"So  you  be's  ere  to-day,  Beck! "said  a  ragamuffin  boy,  who, 
pushing  and  scrambling  through  his  betters,  now  halted  and 
wiped  his  forehead  as  he  looked  at  the  sweeper.  "Vy,  ve  are 
all  out  pleasuring.  Vy  vont  you  come  with  ve?  Lots  of  fun !" 

The  sweeper  scowled  at  the  urchin,  and  made  no  answer,  but 
began  sedulously  to  apply  himself  to  the  crossing. 

"Vy,  there  isn't  another  sweep  in  the  streets,  Beck.  His 
Majesty  King  Bill's  Currynation  makes  all  on  us  so  appy!" 

"It  has  made  she  unkimmon  dirty!"  returned  Beck  pointing 
to  the  dingy  crossing,  scarce  distinguished  from  the  rest  of  the 
road. 

The  ragamuffin  laughed. 

"But  ve  be's  goin'  toave  Reform  now,  Beck.  The  peopul's 
to  have  their  rights  and  libties,  and  the  luds  is  to  be  put  down, 
hand  beefsteaks  is  to  be  a  penny  a  pound,  and — " 


l88  LUCRETIA. 

"What  good  will  that  do  to  she?" 

"Vy,  man,  ve  shall  take  turn  about,  and  sum  vun  helse  will 
sveep  the  crossings,  and  ve  shall  ride  in  sum  vun  helse's  coach 
and  four  prads — cos  vy?  Ve  shall  hall  be  hequals!" 

"Hequals!  I  tells  you  vot,  if  you  keeps  jawing  there,  atween 
me  and  she,  I  shall  vop  you,  Joe — cos  vy;  I  be'sthe  biggest!" 
was  the  answer  of  Beck  the  sweeper  to  Joe  the  ragamuffin. 

The  jovial  Joe  laughed  aloud,  snapped  his  fingers,  threw  up 
his  ragged  cap  with  a  shout  for  King  Bill,  and  set  off  scamper- 
ing and  whooping  to  join  those  festivities  which  Beck  had  so 
churlishly  disdained. 

Time  crept  on ;  evening  began  to  close  in,  and  Beck  was  still 
at  his  crossing,  when  a  young  gentleman  on  horseback,  who, 
after  seeing  the  procession,  had  stolen  away  for  a  quiet  ride  in 
the  suburbs,  reined  in  close  by  the  crossing,  and,  looking 
round,  as  for  some  one  to  hold  his  horse,  could  discover  no 
loiterer  worthy  that  honor  except  the  solitary  Beck.  So  young 
was  the  rider  that  he  seemed  still  a  boy.  On  his  smooth 
countenance  all  that  most  prepossesses  in  early  youth  left  its 
witching  stamp.  A  smile  at  once  gay  and  sweet,  played  on  his 
lips.  There  was  a  charm,  even  in  a  certain  impatient  petu- 
lance in  his  quick  eye,  and  the  slight  contraction  of  his  delicate 
brows.  Almaviva  might  well  have  been  jealous  of  such  a  page! 
He  was  the  beau  ideal  of  Cherubino.  He  held  up  his  whip, 
with  an  arch  sign,  to  the  sweeper.  "Follow,  my  man,"  he 
said,  in  a  tone  the  very  command  of  which  sounded  gentle, 
so  blithe  was  the  movement  of  the  lips,  and  so  silvery  the  easy 
accent ;  and,  without  waiting,  he  cantered  carelessly  down 
Pall  Mall. 

The  sweeper  cast  a  rueful  glance  at  his  melancholy  domain. 
But  he  had  gained  but  little  that  day,  and  the  offer  was  too 
tempting  to  be  rejected.  He  heaved  a  sigh,  shouldered  his 
broom,  and  murmuring  to  himself  that  he  would  give  her  a  last 
brush  before  he  retired  for  the  night,  he  put  his  long  limbs  into 
that  swinging,  shambling  trot  which  characterizes  the  motion  of 
those  professional  jackals,  who,  having  once  caught  sight  of  a 
groomless  rider,  fairly  hunt  him  down,  and  appear  when  he 
least  expects  it,  the  instant  he  dismounts. 

The  young  rider  lightly  swung  himself  from  his  sleek,  high- 
bred gray,  at  the  door  of  one  of  the  clubs  in  St.  James's  Street, 
patted  his  horse's  neck,  chucked  the  rein  to  the  sweeper,  and 
sauntered  into  the  house,  whistling  musically,  if  not  from  want 
of  thought,  certainly  from  want  of  care. 

^.s  he  entered  the  club,  two  or  three  men,  young,  indeed, 


LUCRETIA.  189 

but  much  older,  to  appearance,  at  least,  than  himself,  who 
were  dining  together  at  the  same  table,  nodded  to  him  their 
friendly  greeting. 

"Ah,  Perce,"  said  one,  "we  have  only  just  sat  down;  here 
is  a  seat  for  you." 

The  boy  blushed  shyly,  as  he  accepted  the  proposal,  and  the 
young  men  made  room  for  him  at  the  table,  with  a  smiling 
alacrity  which  showed  that  his  shyness  was  no  hinderance  to 
his  popularity. 

"Who,"  said  an  elderly  dandy,  dining  apart  with  one  of  his 
contemporaries;  "Who  is  that  lad?  One  ought  not  to  admit 
such  mere  boys  into  the  club." 

"He  is  the  only  surviving  son  of  an  old  friend  of  ours,"  ans- 
wered the  other,  dropping  his  eye-glass.  "Young  Percival  St. 
John." 

"St.  John!     What!     Vernon  St.  John's  son?" 

"Yes." 

"He  has  not  his  father's  good  air.  These  young  fellows 
have  a  tone — a  something — a  want  of  self-possession,  eh?" 

"Very  true.  The  fact  is,  that  Percival  was  meant  for  the 
navy,  and  even  served  as  a  mid,  for  a  year  or  so.  He  was  a 
younger  son,  then — third,  I  think.  The  two  elder  ones  died, 
and  Master  Percival  walked  into  the  inheritance.  I  don't 
think  he  is  quite  of  age  yet." 

"Of  age!     He  does  not  look  seventeen!" 

"Oh,  he  is  more  than  that!  I  remember  him  in  his  jacket 
at  Laughton.  A  fine  property!" 

"Ay,  I  don't  wonder  those  fellows  are  so  civil  to  him.  This 
claret  is  corked!  Everything  is  so  bad  at  this  d — d  club!  No 
wonder,  when  a  troop  of  boys  are  let  in !  Enough  to  spoil  any 
club!  Don't  know  Larose  from  Lafitte.  Waiter!" 

Meanwhile  the  talk  round  the  table  at  which  sate  Percival 
St.  John  was  animated,  lively,  and  various — the  talk  common 
with  young  idlers ;  of  horses,  and  steeplechases,  and  opera- 
dancers,  and  reigning  beauties,  and  good-humored  jests  at  each 
other.  In  all  this  babble  there  was  a  freshness  about  Percival 
St.  John's  conversation,  which  showed  that,  as  yet,  for  him  life 
had  the  zest  of  novelty.  He  was  more  at  home  about  horses 
and  steeplechases,  than  about  opera-dancers,  and  beauties,  and 
the  small  scandals  of  town.  Talk  on  these  latter  topics  did  not 
seem  to  interest  him;  on  the  contrary,  almost  to  pain.  Shy 
and  modest  as  a  girl,  he  colored  or  looked  aside  when  his  more 
hardened  friends  boasted  of  assignations  and  love  affairs. 
Spirited,  gay,  and  manly  enough  in  all  really  manly  points,  the 


1 90  LUCRETIA. 

virgin  bloom  of  innocence  was  yet  visible  in  his  frank  charming 
manner..  And  often,  out  of  respect  for  his  delicacy,  some 
hearty  son  of  pleasure  stopped  short  in  his  narrative,  or  lost 
the  point  of  his  anecdote ;  and  yet  so  lovable  was  Percival  in 
his  good-humor,  his  naivete,  his  joyous  entrance  into  innocent 
joy,  that  his  companions  were  scarcely  conscious  of  the  gene 
and  restraint  he  imposed  on  them.  Those  merry,  dark  eyes, 
and  that  flashing  smile,  were  conviviality  of  themselves.  They 
brought  with  them  a  contagious  cheerfulness,  which  compen- 
sated for  the  want  of  corruption. 

Night  had  set  in.  St.  John's  companions  had  departed  to 
their  several  haunts,  and  Percival  himself  stood  on  the  steps  of 
the  club,  resolving  that  he  would  join  the  crowds  that  swept 
through  the  streets  to  gaze  on  the  illuminations,  when  he  per- 
ceived Beck  (still  at  the  rein  of  his  dozing  horse)  whom  he  had 
quite  forgot  till  that  moment.  Laughing  at  his  own  want  of 
memory,  Percival  put  some  silver  into  Beck's  hand — more  sil- 
ver than  Beck  had  ever  before  received  for  similar  service — 
and  said : 

"Well,  my  man,  I  suppose  I  can  trust  you  to  take  my  horse 
to  his  stables,  No.  — ,  the  Mews,  behind  Curzon  Street.  Poor 
fellow,  he  wants  his  supper,  and  you,  too,  I  suppose!" 

Beck  smiled — a  pale,  hungry  smile,  and  pulled  his  forelock 
politely:  "I  can  take  the  oss  werry  safely,  your  onor." 

"Take  him,  then,  and  good-evening;  but  don't  get  on,  for 
your  life." 

"Oh,  no,  sir;   I  never  gets  on;   'taint  in  my  vays." 

And  Beck  slowly  led  the  horse  through  the  crowd,  till  he 
vanished  from  Percival's  eyes. 

Just  then  a  man  passing  through  the  street  paused  as  he  saw 
the  young  gentleman  on  the  steps  of  the  club,  and  said,  gayly: 
"Ah,  how  do  you  do?  Pretty  faces  in  plenty  out  to-night! 
Which  way  are  you  going?" 

"That  is  more  than  I  can  tell  you,  Mr.  Varney.  I  was  just 
thinking  which  turn  to  take — the  right  or  the  left." 

"Then  let  me  be  your  guide,"  and  Varney  offered  his  arm. 

Percival  accepted  the  courtesy ;  and  the  two  walked  on 
towards  Piccadilly.  Many  a  kind  glance  from  the  milliners 
and  maid-servants,  whom  the  illumination  drew  abroad,  roved, 
somewhat  impartially,  towards  St.  John  and  his  companion ; 
but  they  dwelt  longer  on  the  last,  for  t/ierey  at  least,  they  were 
sure  of  a  return.  Varney,  if  not  in  his  first  youth,  was  still  in 
the  prime  of  life ;  and  Time  had  dealt  with  him  so  leniently 
that  he  retained  all  the  personal  advantages  of  youth  itself. 


LUCRETIA.  191 

His  complexion  still  was  clear;  and  as  only  his  upper  lip, 
decorated  with  a  slight,  silken,  and  well-trimmed  moustache, 
was  unshaven,  the  contour  of  the  face  added  to  the  juvenility 
of  his  appearance  by  the  rounded  symmetry  it  betrayed.  His 
hair  escaped  from  his  hat  in  fair  unchanged  luxuriance.  And 
the  nervous  figure,  agile  as  a  panther's,  though  broad-shoul- 
dered and  deep-chested,  denoted  all  the  slightness  and  elastic- 
ity of  twenty-five,  combined  with  the  muscular  power  of  forty. 
His  dress  was  rather  fantastic — too  showy  for  the  good  taste 
which  is  habitual  to  the  English  gentleman — and  there  was  a 
peculiarity  in  his  gait  almost  approaching  to  a  strut,  which  be- 
spoke a  desire  of  effect,  a  consciousness  of  personal  advan- 
tages, equally  opposed  to  the  mien  and  manner  of  Percival's 
usual  companions ;  yet  withal,  even  the  most  fastidious  would 
have  hesitated  to  apply  to  Gabriel  Varney  the  epithet  of  '  'vul- 
gar."  Many  turned  to  look  again;  but  it  was  not  to  remark 
the  dress,  or  the  slight  swagger :  an  expression  of  reckless, 
sinister  power  in  the  countenance,  something  of  vigor  and 
determination  even  in  that  very  walk,  foppish  as  it  would  have 
been  in  most,  made  you  sink  all  observation  of  the  mere  exter- 
nals, in  a  sentiment  of  curiosity  towards  the  man  himself.  He 
seemed  a  somebody,  not  a  somebody  of  conventional  rank,  but 
a  somebody  of  personal  individuality ; .  an  artist  perhaps,  a  poet, 
or  a  soldier  in  some  foreign  service,  but  certainly  a  man  whose 
name  you  would  expect  to  have  heard  of.  Amongst  the  com- 
mon mob  of  passengers  he  stood  out  in  marked  and  distinct 
relief. 

"I  feel  at  home  in  a  crowd,"  said  Varney.  "Do  you 
understand  me?" 

"I  think  so,"  answered  Percival.  "If  ever  I  could  become 
distinguished,  I,  too,  should  feel  at  home  in  a  crowd." 

"You  have  ambition,  then?  You  mean  to  become  distin- 
guished?" asked  Varney,  with  a  sharp,  searching  look. 

There  was  a  deeper  and  steadier  flash  than  usual  from  Per- 
cival's dark  eyes,  and  a  manlier  glow  over  his  cheek,  at  Varney's 
question.  But  he  was  slow  in  answering ;  and  when  he  did  so, 
his  manner  had  all  its  wonted  mixture  of  graceful  bashfulness 
and  gay  candor. 

"Our  rise  does  not  always  depend  on  ourselves.  We 
are  not  all  born  great,  nor  do  we  all  have  greatness  thrust 
on  us." 

"One  can  be  what  one  likes,  with  your  fortune,"  said  Var- 
ney ;  and  there  was  a  growl  of  envy  in  his  voice, 

"What,  be  a  painter  like  you!     Ha,  ha!" 


192  LUCRETIA. 

"Faith,"  said  Varney,  "at  least,  if  you  could  paint  at  all, 
you  would  have  what  I  have  not,  praise  and  fame." 

Percival  pressed  kindly  on  Varney's  arm.  "Courage!  You 
will  get  justice  some  day!" 

Varney  shook  his  head.  "Bah!  There  is  no  such  thing  as 
justice;  all  are  underrated  or  overrated.  Can  you  name  one 
man  whom  you  think  is  estimated  by  the  public  at  his  precise 
value?  As  for  present  popularity,  it  depends  on  two  qualities — 
each  singly,  or  both  united — cowardice  and  charlatanism ;  that 
is,  servile  compliance  with  the  taste  and  opinion  of  the  mo- 
ment, or  a  quack's  spasmodic  efforts  at  originality.  But  why 
bore  you  on  such  matters!  There  are  things  more  attractive 
round  us.  A  good  ankle  that,  eh?  Why,  pardon  me,  it  is 
strange;  but  you  don't  seem  to  care  much  for  women?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  do,"  said  Percival,  with  a  sly  demureness.  "I 
am  very  fond  of — my  mother!" 

"Very  proper  and  filial,"  said  Varney,  laughing;  "And 
does  your  love  for  the  sex  stop  there?" 

"Well,  and  in  truth  I  fancy  so — pretty  nearly.  You  know 
my  grandmother  is  not  alive!  But  that  is  something  really 
worth  looking  at!"  And  Percival  pointed,  almost  with  a 
child's  delight,  at  an  illumination  more  brilliant  than  the  rest. 

"I  suppose,  when  you  come  of  age,  you  will  have  all  the 
cedars  at  Laughton  hung  with  colored  lamps.  Ah,  you  must 
ask  me  there,  some  day.  I  should  so  like  to  see  the  old  place 
again." 

"You  never  saw  it,  I  think  you  say,  in  my  poor  father's 
time?" 

"Never." 

"Yet  you  knew  him." 

"But  slightly." 

"And  you  never  saw  my  mother?" 

"No;  but  she  seems  to  have  such  influence  over  you,  that  I 
am  sure  she  must  be  a  very  superior  person;  rather  proud,  I 
suppose." 

"Proud — no;  that  is,  not  exactly  proud,  for  she  is  very 
meek  and  very  affable.  But  yet — " 

"But  yet — you  hesitate;  she  would  not  like  you  to  be  seen, 
perhaps,  walking  in  Piccadilly  with  Gabriel  Varney,  the  nat- 
ural son  of  old  Sir  Miles's  librarian;  Gabriel  Varney  the 
painter,  Gabriel  Varney  the  adventurer!" 

MAs  long  as  Gabriel  Varney  is  a  man  without  stain  on  his 
character  and  honor,  my  mother  would  only  be  pleased  that  I 
should  know  an  able  and  accomplished  person,  whatever  his 


LUC»,ETlA.  193 

origin  or  parentage.  But  my  mother  would  be  sad  if  she  knew 
me  intimate  with  a  Bourbon  or  a  Raffaelle,  the  first  in  rank  or 
the  first  in  genius,  if  either  prince  or  artist  had  lost  or  even 
sullied  his  'scutcheon  of  gentleman.  In  a  word,  she  is  most 
sensitive  as  to  honor  and  conscience;  all  else  she  disregards." 

"Hem!"  Varney  stooped  down,  as  if  examining  the  polish 
of  his  boot,  while  he  continued,  carelessly:  "Impossible  to 
walk  the  streets  and  keep  one's  boots  out  of  the  mire !  Well — • 
and  you  agree  with  your  mother?" 

"It  would  be  strange  if  I  did  not.  When  I  was  scarcely  four 
years  old,  my  poor  father  used  to  lead  me  through  the  long 
picture-gallery  at  Laughton,  and  say,  'Walk  through  life  as  if 
those  brave  gentlemen  looked  down  on  you.'  And,"  added 
St.  John,  with  his  ingenuous  smile  "my  mother  would  put  in  her 
word — 'And  those  unstained  women,  too,  my  Percival!'  ' 

There  was  something  noble  and  touching  in  the  boy's  low 
accents  as  he  said  this;  it  gave  the  key  to  his  unusual  modesty, 
and  his  frank,  healthful  innocence  of  character. 

The  devil  in  Varney 's  lip  sneered  mockingly. 

"My  young  friend,  you  have  never  loved  yet.  Do  you 
think  you  ever  shall?" 

"I  have  dreamed  that  I  could  love  one  day.  But  I  can 
wait." 

Varney  was  about  to  reply,  when  he  was  accosted  abruptly 
by  three  men  of  that  exaggerated  style  of  dress  and  manner, 
which  is  implied  by  the  vulgar  appellation  of  "Tigrish."  Each 
of  the  three  men  had  a  cigar  in  his  mouth,  each  seemed  flushed 
with  wine.  One  wore  long  brass  spurs,  and  immense  mous- 
taches; another  was  distinguished  by  an  enormous  surface  of 
black  satin  cravat,  across  which  meandered  a  Pactolus  of  gold 
chain ;  a  third  had  his  coat  laced  and  braided,  &  la  Polonaise, 
and  pinched  and  padded  d  la  Russe,  with  trousers  shaped  to 
the  calf  of  a  sinewy  leg,  and  a  glass  screwed  into  his  right  eye. 

"Ah,  Gabriel!  .  Ah,  Varney!  Ah,  prince  of  good  fellows, 
well  met!  You  sup  with  us  to-night  at  little  Celeste's;  we 
were  just  going  in  search  of  you." 

"Who's  your  friend — one  of  us?"  whispered  a  second. 

And  the  third  screwed  his  arm  tight  and  lovingly  into 
Varney 's. 

Gabriel,  despite  his  habitual  assurance,  looked  abashed  for 
the  moment,  and  would  have  extricated  himself  from  cordiali- 
ties not  at  that  moment  welcome;  but  he  saw  that  his  friends 
were  too  far  gone  in  their  cups  to  be  easily  shaken  off,  and  he 
felt  relieved  when  Percival,  after  a  dissatisfied  glance  at  the 


194  LUCRETIA. 

three,  said  quietly:  "I  must  detain  you  no  longer;  I  shall 
soon  look  in  at  your  studio"  ;  and  without  waiting  for  answer, 
slid  off  and  was  lost  among  the  crowd. 

Varney  walked  on  with  his  new-found  friends,  unheeding 
for  some  moments  their  loose  remarks  and  familiar  banter.  At 
length  he  shook  off  his  abstraction,  and  surrendering  himself 
to  the  coarse  humors  of  his  companions,  soon  eclipsed  them  all 
by  the  gusto  of  his  slang  and  the  mocking  profligacy  of  his  sen- 
timents; for  here  he  no  longer  played  a  part,  or  suppressed  his 
grosser  instincts.  That  uncurbed  dominion  of  the  senses,  to 
which  his  very  boyhood  had  abandoned  itself,  found  a  willing 
slave  in  the  man.  Even  the  talents  themselves  that  he  dis- 
played came  from  the  cultivation  of  the  sensual.  His  eye, 
studying  externals,  made  him  a  painter ;  his  ear,  quick,  and 
practised,  a  musician.  His  wild,  prodigal  fancy  rioted  on 
every  excitement,  and  brought  him  in  a  vast  harvest  of  experi- 
ence in  knowledge  of  the  frailties  and  the  vices  on  which  it 
indulged  its  vagrant  experiments.  Men  who  over-cultivate  the 
art  that  connects  itself  with  the  senses,  with  little  counterpoise 
from  the  reason  and  pure  intellect,  are  apt  to  be  dissipated  and 
irregular  in  their  lives.  This  is  frequently  noticeable  in  the 
biographies  of  musicians,  singers,  and  painters,  less  so  in  poets, 
because  he  who  deals  with  words,  not  signs  and  tones,  must 
perpetually  compare  his  senses  with  the  pure  images  of  which 
the  senses  only  see  the  appearances ;  in  a  word,  he  must  em- 
ploy his  intellect,  and  his  self-education  must  be  large  and  com- 
prehensive. But  with  most  real  genius,  however  fed  merely  by 
the  senses ;  most  really  great  painters,  singers,  and  musicians, 
however  easily  led  astray  into  temptation,  the  richness  of  the 
soil  throws  up  abundant  good  qualities  to  countervail  or  redeem 
the  evil ;  they  are  usually  compassionate,  generous,  sympathiz- 
ing. That  Varney  had  not  such  beauties  of  soul  and  tempera- 
ment it  is  unnecessary  to  add,  principally,  it  is  true,  because 
of  his  nurture,  education,  parental  example,  the  utter  corrup- 
tion in  which  his  childhood  and  youth  had  passed,  partly 
because  he  had  no  real  genius ;  it  was  a  false  apparition  of  the 
divine  spirit,  reflected  from  the  exquisite  perfection  of  his 
frame  (which  rendered  all  his  senses  so  vigorous  and  acute), 
and  his  riotous  fancy,  and  his  fitful  energy,  which  was  capable 
at  times  of  great  application,  but  not  of  definite  purpose  or 
earnest  study.  All  about  him  was  flashy  and  hollow.  He  had 
not  the  natural  subtlety  and  depth  of  mind  that  had  character- 
ized his  terrible  father.  The  graft  of  the  opera  dancer  was 
visible  on  the  stock  of  the  scholar;  wholly  without  the  habits 


LUCRETIA.  195 

/ 

of  method  and  order,  without  the  patience,  without  the  math- 
ematical, calculating  brain  of  Dalibard,  he  played  wantonly 
with  the  horrible  and  loathsome  wickedness  of  which  Olivier 
had  made  dark,  and  solemn  study.  Extravagant  and  lavish, 
he  spent  money  as  fast  as  he  gained  it ;  he  threw  away  all 
chances  of  eminence  and  career.  In  the  midst  of  the  direst 
plots  of  his  villany,  or  the  most  energetic  pursuit  of  his  art, 
the  poorest  excitement,  the  veriest  bauble  would  draw  him 
aside.  His  heart  was  with  Falri  in  the  sty,  his  fancy  with 
Aladdin  in  the  palace.  To  make  a  show  was  his  darling  object ; 
he  loved  to  create  effect  by  his  person,  his  talk,  his  dress,  as 
well  as  by  his  talents.  Living  from  hand  to  mouth,  crimes 
through  which  it  is  not  our  intention  to  follow  him,  had  at  times 
made  him  rich  to-day,  for  vices  to  make  him  poor  again  to- 
morrow. What  he  called  "luck,"  or  "his  star,"  had  favored 
him, — \\zwasnothanged! — he  lived;  and,  as  the  greater  part 
of  his  unscrupulous  career  had  been  conducted  in  foreign 
lands,  and  under  other  names — in  his  own  name,  and  in  his 
own  country,  though  something  scarcely  to  be  defined,  but 
equivocal  and  provocative  of  suspicion,  made  him  displeasing 
to  the  prudent,  and  vaguely  alarmed  the  experience  of  the 
sober — still  no  positive  accusation  was  attached  to  the  general 
integrity  of  his  character ;  and  the  mere  dissipation  of  his  habits 
was  naturally  little  known  out  of  his  familiar  circle.  Hence, 
he  had  the  most  presumptuous  confidence  in  himself — a  confi- 
dence native  to  his  courage,  and  confirmed  by  his  experience. 
His  conscience  was  so  utterly  obtuse,  that  he  might  almost  be 
said  to  present  the  phenomenon  of  a  man  without  conscience 
at  all.  Unlike  Conrad,  he  did  not  "know  himself  a  villain," 
all  that  he  knew  of  himself  was,  that  he  was  a  remarkably 
clever  fellow,  without  prejudice  or  superstition.  That,  with 
all  his  gifts,  he  had  not  succeeded  better  in  life,  he  ascribed 
carelessly  to  the  surpassing  wisdom  of  his  philosophy.  He 
could  have  done  better  if  he  had  enjoyed  himself  less ;  but  was 
not  enjoyment  the  be  all  and  end  all  of  this  little  life?  More 
often,  indeed,  in  the  moods  of  his  bitter  envy,  he  would  lay 
the  fault  upon  the  world.  How  great  he  could  have  been  if 
he  had  been  rich  and  high  born !  Oh,  he  was  made  to  spend, 
not  to  save;  to  command,  not  to  fawn!  He  was  not  formed 
to  plod  through  the  dull  mediocrities  of  fortune;  he  must  toss 
up  for  the  All  or  the  Nothing!  It  was  no  control  over  himself 
that  made  Varney  now  turn  his  thoughts  from  certain  grave 
designs  on  Percival  St.  John,  to  the  brutal  debauchery  of  his 
three  companions;  rather  he  then  yielded  most  to  his  natuuil 


196  LUCRETIA. 

self.  And  when  the  morning  star  rose  over  the  night  he  passed 
with  low  profligates  and  venal  nymphs ;  when,  over  the  frag- 
ments on  the  board  and  emptied  bottles,  and  drunken  riot, 
dawn  gleamed  and  saw  him  in  all  the  pride  of  his  magnificent 
organization,  and  the  cynicism  of  his  measured  vice — fair, 
fresh,  and  blooming  amidst  those  maudlin  eyes,  and  flushed 
cheeks,  and  reeling  figures,  laughing  hideously  over  the  spec- 
tacle he  had  provoked,  and  kicking  aside,  with  a  devil's  scorn, 
the  prostrate  form  of  the  favored  partner  whose  head  had 
rested  on  his  bosom,  as  alone  with  a  steady  step  "he  passed  the 
threshold,  and  walked  into  the  fresh,  healthful  air — Gabriel 
Varney  enjoyed  the  fell  triumph  of  his  hell-born  vanity,  and 
revelled  in  his  sentiment  of  superiority  and  power. 

Meanwhile,  on  quitting  Varney,  young  Percival  strolled  on 
as  the  whim  directed  him.  Turning  down  the  Haymarket,  he 
gained  the  colonnade  of  the  Opera  House.  The  crowd  there 
was  so  dense  that  his  footsteps  were  arrested,  and  he  leant 
against  one  of  the  columns  in  admiration  of  the  various  galax- 
ies in  view.  In  front  blazed  the  rival  stars  of  the  United  Ser- 
vice Club  and  the  Athenaeum;  to  the  left,  the  quaint  and 
peculiar  device  which  lighted  up  Northumberland  House;  to 
the  right,  the  anchors,  cannons,  and  bombs,  which  typified  in- 
geniously the  martial  attributes  of  the  Ordnance  Office. 

At  that  moment  there  were  three  persons  connected  with  this 
narrative  within  a  few  feet  of  each  other,  distinguished  from 
the  multitude  by  the  feelings  with  which  each  regarded  the 
scene  and  felt  the  jostle  of  the  crowd.  Percival  St.  John,  in 
whom  the  harmless  sense  of  pleasure  was  yet  vivid  and  unsatia- 
ted,  caught  from  the  assemblage  only  that  physical  hilarity 
which  heightened  his  own  spirits.  If  in  a  character  as  yet  so 
undeveloped,  to  which  the  large  passions  and  stern  ends  of  life 
were  as  yet  unknown,  stirred  some  deeper  and  more  musing 
thoughts  and  speculations,  giving  gravity  to  the  habitual  smile 
on  his  rosy  lip,  and  steadying  the  play  of  his  sparkling  eyes,  he 
would  have  been  at  a  loss  himself  to  explain  the  dim  sentiment, 
and  the  vague  desire. 

Screened  by  another  column  from  the  pressure  of  the  mob, 
with  his  arms  folded  on  his  breast,  a  man  some  few  years  older 
in  point  of  time — many  years  older  in  point  of  character — 
gazed  (with  thoughts  how  turbulent,  with  ambition  how  pro- 
found!) upon  the  dense  and  dark  masses  that  covered  space 
and  street  far  as  the  eye  could  reach.  He,  indeed,  could  not 
have  said,  with  Varney,  that  he  was  "at  home  in  a  crowd." 
For  a  crowd  did  not  fill  him  with  the  sense  of  his  own  individ- 


LUCRETIA.  197 

ual  being  and  importance,  but  grappled  him  to  its  mighty 
breast  with  the  thousand  tissues  of  a  common  destiny.  Who 
shall  explain  and  disentangle  those  high,  and  restless,  and  in- 
terwoven emotions  with  which  intellectual  ambition,  honorable 
and  ardent,  gazes  upon  that  solemn  thing  with  which,  in  which, 
for  which  it  lives  and  labors — the  Human  Multitude.  To  that 
abstracted,  solitary  man,  the  illumination,  the  festivity,  the 
curiosity,  the  holiday,  were  nothing,  or  but  as  fleeting  phan- 
toms and  vain  seemings.  In  his  heart's  eye,  he  saw  before  him 
but  the  PEOPLE,  the  shadow  of  an  everlasting  audience — audi- 
ence at  once  and  judge. 

And  literally  touching  him  as  he  stood,  the  ragged  sweeper, 
who  had  returned  in  vain  to  devote  a  last  care  to  his  beloved 
charge,  stood  arrested  with  the  rest,  gazing  joylessly  on  the 
blazing  lamps,  dead  as  the  stones  he  heeded,  to  the  young 
vivacity  of  the  one  man,  the  solemn  visions  of  the  other.  So, 
O  London,  amidst  the  universal  holiday  to  monarch  and  to 
mob,  in  those  three  souls  lived  the  three  elements,  which,  duly 
mingled  and  administered,  make  thy  vice  and  thy  virtue,  thy 
glory  and  thy  shame,  thy  labor  and  thy  luxury ;  pervading  the 
palace  and  the  street,  the  hospital  and  the  prison ;  enjoyment, 
which  is  pleasure ;  energy,  which  is  action ;  torpor,  which  is 
want ! 

CHAPTER   II. 

LOVE    AT    FIRST    SIGHT. 

SUDDENLY  across  the  gaze  of  Percival  St.  John  there  flashed 
a  face  that  woke  him  from  his  abstraction,  as  a  light  awakes 
the  sleeper.  It  was  as  a  recognition  of  something  seen  dimly 
before ;  a  truth  coming  out  from  a  dream.  It  was  not  the 
mere  beauty  of  that  face  (and  beautiful  it  was),  that  arrested 
his  eye  and  made  his  heart  beat  more  quickly ;  it  was  rather 
that  nameless  and  inexplicable  sympathy  which  constitutes  love 
at  first  sight ;  a  sort  of  impulse  and  instinct  common  to  the 
dullest  as  the  quickest;  the  hardest  reason  as  the  liveliest 
fancy.  Plain  Cobbett,  seeing  before  the  cottage  door,  at  her 
homeliest  of  housework,  the  girl  of  whom  he  said:  "That  girl 
should  be  my  wife,"  and  Dante,  first  thrilled  by  the  vision  of 
Beatrice,  are  alike  true  types  of  a  common  experience: 
Whatever  of  love  sinks  the  deepest  is  felt  at  first  sight;  it 
streams  on  us  abrupt  from  the  cloud,  a  lightning  flash,  a  destiny 
revealed  to  us  face  to  face. 

Now,  there  was  nothing  poetical  in  the  place  or  the  circum- 


198  LUCRETIA. 

stance,  still  less  in  the  companionship  in  which  this  fair  crea- 
ture startled  the  virgin  heart  of  that  careless  boy ;  she  was  lean- 
ing on  the  arm  of  a  stout,  rosy-faced  matron  in  a  puce-colored 
gown,  who  was  flanked  on  the  other  side  by  a  very  small,  very 
spare  man,  with  a  very  wee  face,  the  lower  part  of  which  was 
enveloped  in  an  immense  belcher.  Besides  these  two  incum- 
brances,  the  stout  lady  contrived  to  carry  in  her  hands  an  um- 
brella, a  basket,  and  a  pair  of  pattens. 

In  the  midst  of  the  strange,  unfamiliar  emotion  which  his  eye 
conveyed  to  his  heart,  Percival's  ear  was  displeasingly  jarred 
by  the  loud,  bluff,  hearty  voice  of  the  girl's  female  companion : 

"Gracious  me!  If  that  is  not  John  Ardworth!  Who'd 
have  thought  it!  Why,  John!  I  say,  John!"  and  lifting  her 
umbrella  horizontally,  she  poked  aside  two  city  clerks  in  front 
of  her,  wheeled  round  the  little  man  on  her  left,  upon  whom 
the  clerks  simultaneously  bestowed  the  appellation  of  "feller," 
and  driving  him  as  being  the  sharpest  and  thinnest  wedge  at 
hand,  through  a  dense  knot  of  some  half-a-dozen  gapers,  while 
following  his  involuntary  progress  she  looked  defiance  on  the 
malcontents,  she  succeeded  in  clearing  her  way  to  the  spot 
where  stood  the  young  man  she  had  discovered.  The  ambi- 
tious dreamer,  for  it  was  he,  thus  detected  and  disturbed, 
looked  embarrassed  for  a  moment,  as  the  stout  lady,  touching 
him  with  the  umbrella,  said : 

"Well,  I  declare,  if  this  is  not  too  bad !  You  sent  word  that 
you  should  not  be  able  to  come  out  with  us  to  see  the  'lumina- 
tions,  and  here  you  are  as  large  as  life!" 

"I  did  not  think  at  the  moment  you  wrote  to  me,  that — " 

"Oh,  stuff!"  interrupted  the  stout  woman,  with  a  signifi- 
cant, good-humored  shake  of  her  head;  "I  know  what's  what; 
tell  the  truth,  and  shame  the  gentleman  who  objects  to  showing 
his  feet.  You  are  a  wild  fellow,  John  Ardworth — you  are! 
You  like  looking  after  the  pretty  faces — you  do — you  do — ha, 
ha,  ha!  Very  natural!  So  did  you  once,  did  not  you,  Mr. 
Mivers — did  not  you,  eh?  Men  must  be  men;  they  always  are 
men,  and  it's  my  belief  that  men  they  always  will  be!" 

With  this  sage  conjecture  into  the  future,  the  lady  turned  to 
Mr.  Mivers,  who,  thus  appealed  to,  extricated  with  some  diffi- 
culty his  chin  from  the  folds  of  his  belcher,  and  putting  up  his 
small  face,  said,  in  a  small  voice:  "Yes,  I  was  a  wild  fellow 
once,  but  you  have  tamed  me  !  You  have,  Mrs.  M." 

And  therewith  the  chin  sunk  again  into  the  belcher,  and  the 
small  voice  died  into  a  small  sigh. 

The  stout  lady  glanced  benignly  at  her  spouse,  and  then  re* 


LUCRETIA.  199 

suming  her  address,  to  which  Ardworth  listened  with  a  half- 
frown  and  a  half-smile,  observed,  encouragingly : 

"Yes,  there's  nothing  like  a  lawful  wife  to  break  a  man  in, 
as  you  will  find  some  day.  Howsomever,  your  time's  not  come 
for  the  Altar,  so  suppose  you  give  Helen  your  arm,  and  come 
with  us." 

"Do,"  said  Helen,  in  a  sweet,  coaxing  voice. 

Ardworth  bent  down  his  rough,  earnest  face  to  Helen's,  and 
an  evident  pleasure  relaxed  its  thoughtful  lines.  "I  cannot  re- 
sist you, ' '  he  began,  and  then  he  paused  and  frowned.  ' '  Pish, ' ' 
he  added,  "I  was  talking  folly;  but  what  head  would  not  you 
turn?  Resist  you  I  must,  for  I  am  on  my  way  now  to  my 
drudgery.  Ask  me  anything,  some  years  hence,  when  I  have 
time  to  be  happy,  and  then  see  if  I  am  the  bear  you  now  call 
me." 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Mivers  emphatically,  "are  you  coming, 
or  are  you  not?  Don't  stand  there,  shilly-shally." 

"Mrs.  Mivers,"  returned  Ardworth,  with  a  kind  of  sly 
humor,  "I  am  sure  you  would  be  very  angry  with  your  hus- 
band's excellent  shopmen,  if  that  was  the  way  they  spoke  to 
your  customers.  If  some  unhappy  dropper-in,  some  lady  who 
came  to  buy  a  yard  or  so  of  Irish,  was  suddenly  dazzled  as  I  am, 
by  a  luxury  wholly  unforeseen  and  eagerly  coveted — a  splendid 
lace  veil,  or  a  ravishing  cashmere,  or  whatever  else  you  ladies 
desiderate — and  while  she  was  balancing  between  prudence 
and  temptation,  your  foreman  exclaimed;  'Don't  stand  shilly- 
shally,'— come,  I  put  it  to  you." 

"Stuff!"  said  Mrs.  Mivers. 

"Alas!  unlike  your  imaginary  customer  (I  hope  so,  at  least, 
for  the  sake  of  your  till),  prudence  gets  the  better  of  me;  un- 
less," added  Ardworth  irresolutely,  and  glancing  at  Helen; 
"Unless,  indeed,  you  are  not  sufficiently  protected,  and — " 

"Purtected!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Mivers,  in  an  indignant  tone 
of  astonishment,  and  agitating  the  formidable  umbrella,  "as  if  I 
was  not  enough,  with  the  help  of  this  here  domestic  commod- 
ity, to  purtect  a  dozen  such.  Purtected,  indeed!" 

"John  is  right,  Mrs.  M. ;  business  is  business,"  said  Mr. 
Mivers.  "Let  us  move  on;  we  stop  the  way,  and  those  idle 
lads  are  listening  to  us,  and  sniggering." 

"Sniggering!"  exclaimed  the  gentle  helpmate;  "I  should 
like  to  see  those  who  presume  for  to  snigger"  ;  and  as  she  spoke 
she  threw  a  look  of  defiance  around  her.  Then,  having  thus 
satisfied  her  resentment,  she  prepared  to  obey,  as  no  doubt  she 
always  did,  her  lord  and  master.  Suddenly,  with  a  practised 


200  LUCRETIA. 

movement,  she  wheeled  round  Mr.  Mivers,  and  taking  care  too 
protrude  before  him  the  sharp  point  of  the  umbrella,  cut  her 
way  through  the  crowd  like  the  scythe  car  of  the  ancient  Britons, 
and  was  soon  lost  amidst  the  throng,  although  her  way  might 
be  guessed  by  a  slight  ripple  of  peculiar  agitation  along  the 
general  stream,  accompanied  by  a  prolonged  murmur  of  re- 
proach or  expostulation  which  gradually  died  in  the  distance. 

Ardworth  gazed  after  the  fair  form  of  Helen  with  a  look  of 
regret ;  and,  when  it  vanished,  with  a  slight  start  and  a  sup- 
pressed sigh,  he  turned  away,  and  with  the  long,  steady  stride 
of  a  strong  man,  cleared  his  path  through  the  Strand,  towards 
the  printing-office  of  a  journal  on  which  he  was  responsibly  en- 
gaged. 

But  Percival,  who  had  caught  much  of  the  conversation  that 
took  place  so  near  him — Percival,  happy  child  of  idleness  and 
whim,  had  no  motive  of  labor  and  occupation  to  stay  the  free 
impulse  of  his  heart,  and  his  heart  drew  him  on,  with  magnetic 
attraction,  in  the  track  of  the  first  being  that  had  ever  touched 
the  sweet  instincts  of  youth. 

Meanwhile,  Mrs.  Mivers  was  destined  to  learn,  though,  per- 
haps, the  lesson  little  availed  her,  that  to  get  smoothly  through 
this  world  it  is  necessary  to  be  supple  as  well  as  strong;  and 
though,  up  to  a  certain  point,  man  or  woman  may  force  the 
way  by  poking  umbrellas  into  people's  ribs,  and  treading  merci- 
lessly upon  people's  toes,  yet  the  endurance  of  ribs  and  toes 
has  its  appointed  limits. 

Helen,  half-terrified,  also  half-amused,  by  her  companion's 
robust  resolution  of  purpose,  had  in  Mrs.  Mivers's  general  cour- 
age and  success  that  confidence  which  the  weak  repose  in  the 
strong,  and  though,  whenever  she  turned  her  eyes  from  the 
illuminations,  she  besought  Mrs.  Mivers  to  be  more  gentle,  yet 
seeing  that  they  had  gone  safely  from  St.  Paul's  to  St.  James's, 
she  had  no  distinct  apprehension  of  any  practically  ill  results 
from  the  energies  she  was  unable  to  mitigate.  But  now,  hav- 
ing just  gained  the  end  of  St.  James's  Street,  Mrs.  Mivers  at 
last  found  her  match.  The  crowd  here  halted,  thick  and  ser- 
ried, to  gaze  in  peace  upon  the  brilliant  vista  which  the  shops 
and  clubs  of  that  street  presented.  Coaches  and  carriages  had 
paused  in  their  line,  and  immediately  before  Mrs.  Mivers 
stood  three  very  thin,  small  women;  whose  dress  bespoke  them 
to  be  of  the  humblest  class. 

"Make  way,  there — make  way,  my  good  women,  make  way!" 
cried  Mrs.  Mivers,  equally  disdainful  of  the  size  and  the  rank 
of  the  obstructing  partie? 


LUCRETIA.  $61 

*'Arrah,  and  what  shall  we  make  way  for  the  like  of  you,  you 
ould  busybody?"  said  one  of  the  dames  turning  round,  and 
presenting  a  very  formidable  squint  to  the  broad  optics  of  Mrs. 
Mivers. 

Without  deigning  a  reply  Mrs.  Mivers  had  recourse  to  her 
usual  tactics.  Umbrella  and  husband  went  right  between  two 
of  the  feminine  obstructives ;  and  to  the  inconceivable  astonish- 
ment and  horror  of  the  assailant,  husband  and  umbrella  instant- 
ly vanished.  The  three  small  furies  had  pounced  upon  both. 
They  were  torn  from  their  natural  owner — they  were  hurried 
away  ;  the  stream  behind,  long  fretted  at  the  path  so  abruptly 
made  amidst  it,  closed  in,  joyous  with  a  thousand  waves.  Mrs. 
Mivers  and  Helen  were  borne  forward  in  one  way,  the  umbrella 
and  the  husband  in  the  other:  at  the  distance  a  small  voice  was 
heard:  "Don't  you! — don't!  Be  quiet!  Mrs. — Mrs.  M.  Oh! 
oh!  Mrs.  M. !"  At  that  last  repetition  of  the  beloved  and 
familiar  initial,  uttered  in  a  tone  of  almost  superhuman  an- 
guish, the  conjugal  heart  of  Mrs.  Mivers  was  afflicted  beyond 
control. 

"Wait  here  a  moment,  my  dear!  I'll  just  give  it  them — • 
that's  all!"  And  in  another  moment  Mrs.  Mivers  was  heard 
bustling,  scolding,  till  all  trace  of  her  whereabouts  was  gone 
from  the  eyes  of  Helen.  Thus  left  alone,  in  exceeding  shame 
and  dismay,  the  poor  girl  cast  a  glance  around.  The  glance 
was  caught  by  two  young  men,  whose  station,  in  those  days 
when  dress  is  an  equivocal  designator  of  rank,  could  not  be 
guessed  by  their  exterior.  They  might  be  dandies  from  the 
west,  they  might  be  clerks  from  the  east. 

"By  Jove,"  exclaimed  one,  "that's  a  sweet  pretty  girl!" 
and,  by  a  ;  sudden  movement  of  the  crowd,  they  both  found 
themselves  close  to  Helen. 

"Are  you  alone,  my  dear?"  said  a  voice  rudely  familiar. 

Helen  made  no  reply, — the  tone  of  the  voice  frightened  her. 
A  gap  in  the  mob  showed  the  space  towards  Cleveland  Row, 
which,  leading  to  no  illuminations,  was  vacant  and  solitary. 
She  instantly  made  towards  this  spot;  the  two  men  followed 
her,  the  bolder  and  elder  one  occasionally  trying  to  catch  hold 
of  her  arm.  At  last,  as  she  passed  the  last  house  to  the  left,  a 
house  then  owned  by  One  who,  at  once  far-sighted  and  im- 
petuous, affable  and  haughty,  characterized  alike  by  solid  vir- 
tues and  brilliant  faults,  would,  but  for  hollow  friends,  have 
triumphed  over  countless  foes,  and  enjoyed  at  last  that  brief 
day  of  stormy  power  for  which  statesmen  resign  the  health  of 
manhood  and  the  hope  of  age — as  she  passed  that  memorable 


202  LUCRETIA. 

mansion,  she  suddenly  perceived  that  the  space  before  her  had 
no  thoroughfare,  and,  while  she  paused  in  dismay,  her  pursuers 
blockaded  her  escape. 

One  of  them  now  fairly  seized  her  hand:  "Nay,  pretty 
one,  why  so  cruel?  But  one  kiss — only  one ! "  He  endeavored 
to  pass  his  arm  round  her  waist  while  he  spoke.  Helen  eluded 
him,  and  darted  forward,  to  find  her  way  stopped  by  her  perse- 
cutor's companion,  when  to  her  astonishment,  a  third  person 
gently  pushed  aside  the  form  that  impeded  her  path,  approached, 
and  looking  mute  defiance  at  the  unchivalric  molesters,  offered 
her  his  arm.  Helen  gave  but  one  timid  hurrying  glance  to  her 
unexpected  protector:  something  in  his  face,  his  air,  his  youth, 
appealed  at  once  to  her  confidence.  Mechanically,  and  scarce 
knowing  what  she  did,  she  laid  her  trembling  hand  on  the  arm 
held  out  to  her. 

The  two  Lotharios  looked  foolish.  One  pulled  up  his  shirt 
collar,  the  other  turned,  with  a  forced  laugh,  on  his  heel.  Boy 
as  Percival  seemed,  and  little  more  than  boy  as  he  was,  there 
was  a  dangerous  fire  in  his  eye,  and  an  expression  of  spirit  and 
ready  courage  in  his  whole  countenance,  which,  if  it  did  not 
awe  his  tall  rivals,  made  them  at  least  unwilling  to  have  a  scene, 
and  provoke  the  interference  of  the  policemen,  one  of  whom 
was  now  seen  walking  slowly  up  to  the  spot.  They  therefore 
preserved  a  discomfited  silence;  and  Percival  St.  John,  with 
his  heart  going  ten  knots  a  beat,  sailed  triumphantly  off  with 
his  prize. 

Scarcely  knowing  whither  he  went,  certainly  forgetful  of  Mr. 
Mivers,  in  his  anxiety  to  escape  at  least  from  the  crowd,  Perci- 
val walked  on  till  he  found  himself  with  his  fair  charge  under 
the  trees  of  St.  James's  Park. 

Then  Helen,  recovering  herself,  paused,  and  said,  alarmed: 
"But  this  is  not  my  way:  I  must  go  back  to  the  street!" 

"How  foolish  I  am — that  is  true!"  said  Percival,  looking 
confused.  "I — I  felt  so  happy  to  be  with  you,  feel  your  hand 
on  my  arm,  and  think  that  we  were  all  by  ourselves,  that — 
that — but  you  have  dropped  your  flowers!" 

And  as  a  bouquet  Helen  wore,  dislodged  somehow  or  other, 
fell  to  the  ground,  both  stooped  to  pick  it  up,  and  their  hands 
met.  At  that  touch,  Percival  felt  a  strange  tremble,  which  per- 
haps communicated  itself  (for  such  things  are  contagious)  to  his 
fair  companion.  Percival  had  got  the  nosegay,  and  seemed 
willing  to  detain  it,  for  he  bent  his  face  lingeringly  over  the 
flowers.  At  length,  he  turned  his  bright  ingenuous  eyes  to 
Helen,  and  singling  one  rose  from  the  rest,  said  beseech- 


LtJCRETIA.  203 

ingly:  "May  I  keep  this?  See,  it  is  not  so  fresh  as  the 
others." 

"I  am  sure,  sir,"  said  Helen,  coloring,  and  looking  down, 
"I  owe  you  so  much  that  I  should  be  glad  if  a  poor  flower 
could  repay  it." 

"A  poor  flower!  You  don't  know  what  a  prize  this  is  to 
me!" 

Percival  placed  the  rose  reverently  in  his  bosom,  and  the  two 
moved  back  slowly,  as  if  reluctant  both,  through  the  old  palace 
court  into  the  street. 

"Is  that  lady  related  to  you?"  asked  Percival,  looking  another 
way,  and  dreading  the  reply:  "Not  your  mother,  surely!" 

"Oh,  no!   I  have  no  mother !" 

"Forgive  me!"  said  Percival,  for  the  tone  of  Helen's  voice 
told  him  that  he  had  touched  the  spring  of  a  household  sorrow. 
"And,"  he  added,  with  a  jealousy  that  he  could  scarcely  re- 
strain from  making  itself  evident  in  his  accent,  "that  gentle- 
man who  spoke  to  you  under  the  Colonnade — I  have  seen  him 
before,  but  where  I  cannot  remember.  In  fact,  you  have  put 
everything  but  yourself  out  of  my  head.  Is  he  related  to 
you?" 

"He  is  my  cousin." 

"Cousin!"  repeated  Percival,  pouting  a  little;  and  again 
there  was  silence. 

"I  don't  know  how  it  is,"  said  Percival,  at  last,  and  very 
gravely  as,  if  much  perplexed  by  some  abstruse  thought,  "but 
I  feel  as  if  I  had  known  you  all  my  life.  I  never  felt  this  for 
any  one  before." 

There  was  something  so  irresistibly  innocent  in  the  boy's  seri- 
ous, wondering  tone,  as  he  said  these  words,  that  a  smile,  in 
spite  of  herself,  broke  out  amongst  the  thousand  dimples  round 
Helen's  charming  lips.  Perhaps  the  little  witch  felt  a  touch  of 
coquetry  for  the  first  time. 

Percival,  who  was  looking  sidelong  into  her  face,  saw  the 
smile,  and  said,  drawing  up  his  head,  and  shaking  back  his 
jetty  curls;  "I  dare  say  you  are  laughing  at  me  as  a  mere  boy; 
but  I  am  older  than  I  look.  I  am  sure  I  am  much  older  than 
you  are.  Let  me  see,  you  are  seventeen,  I  suppose?" 

Helen,  getting  more  and  more  at  her  ease,  nodded  playful 
assent. 

"And  lam  not  far  from  twenty-one.  Ah!  you  may  well 
look  surprised,  but  so  it  is.  An  hour  ago  I  felt  a  mere  boy; 
uow  I  shall  never  feel  a  boy  again!" 

O*ice  more  there  was  a  long  pause,  and  before  it  was  broken 


204  LUCRET1A. 

they  had  gained  the  very  spot  in  which  Helen  had  lost  her 
friend. 

"Why,  bless  us,  and  save  us!"  exclaimed  a  voice  "loud  as 
a  trumpet,"  but  not  "with  a  silver  sound,"  "there  you  are, 
after  all!"  and  Mrs.  Mivers  (husband  and  umbrella  both  re- 
gained) planted  herself  full  before  them. 

"Oh,  a  pretty  fright  I  have  been  in;  and  now  to  see  you 
coming  along  as  cool  as  if  nothing  had  happened;  as  if  the 
humbrella  had  not  lost  its  hivory  'andle;  it's  quite  purvoking. 
Dear,  dear !  What  we  have  gone  through !  And  who  is  this 
young  gentleman,  pray?" 

Helen  whispered  some  hesitating  explanation,  which  Mrs. 
Mivers  did  not  seem  to  receive  as  graciously  as  Percival,  poor 
fellow,  had  a  right  to  expect.  She  stared  him  full  in  the  face, 
and  shook  her  head  suspiciously  when  she  saw  him  a  little  con- 
fused by  the  survey.  Then,  tucking  Helen  tightly  under  her 
arm,  she  walked  back  towards  the  Haymarket.  merely  saying  to 
Percival : 

"Much  obligated,  and  good-night.  I  have  along  journey  to 
take  to  set  down  this  here  young  lady,  and  the  best  thing  we 
can  all  do  is  to  get  home  as  fast  as  we  can,  and  have  a  refreshing 
cup  of  tea — that's  my  mind,  sir.  Excuse  nief 

Thus  abruptly  dismissed,  poor  Percival  gazed  wistfully  on  his 
Helen,  as  she  was  borne  along,  and  was  somewhat  comforted  at 
seeing  her  look  back,  with  (as  he  thought)  a  touch  of  regret  in 
her  parting  smile.  Then  suddenly  it  flashed  across  him  how 
sadly  he  had  wasted  his  time.  Novice  that  he  was,  he  had  not 
even  learned  the  name  and  address  of  his  new  acquaintance. 
At  that  thought  he  hurried  on  through  the  crowd,  but  only 
reached  the  object  of  his  pursuit  just  in  time  to  see  her 
placed  in  a  coach,  and  to  catch  a  full  view  of  the  luxuri- 
ant proportions  of  Mrs.  Mivers  as  she  followed  her  into  the 
vehicle. 

As  the  lumbering  conveyance  (the  only  coach  on  the  stand) 
heaved  itself  into  motion,  Percival's  eye  fell  on  the  sweeper, 
who  was  still  leaning  on  his  broom,  and  who,  in  grateful  recog- 
nition of  the  unwonted  generosity  that  had  repaid  his  service, 
touched  his  ragged  hat,  and  smiled  drowsily  on  his  young  cus- 
tomer. Love  sharpens  the  wit,  and  animates  the  timid;  a 
thought  worthy  of  the  most  experienced  inspired  Percival  St. 
John :  he  hurried  to  the  sweeper,  laid  his  hand  on  his  patch- 
work coat,  and  said,  breathlessly : 

"You  see  that  coach  turning  into  the  square:  follow  it,  find 
out  where  it  sets  down.  There's  a  sovereign  for  you;  another 


LUCRETIA.  20$ 

if  you  succeed.  Call  and  tell  me  your  success.  Number  — • 
Curzon  Street! — Off,  like  a  shot!" 

The  sweeper  nodded  and  grinned ;  it  was  possibly  not  his 
first  commission  of  a  similar  kind.  He  darted  down  the  street ; 
and  Percival,  following  him  with  equal  speed,  had  the  satisfac- 
tion to  see  him,  as  the  coach  traversed  St.  James's  Square,  com- 
fortably seated  on  the  footboard. 

Beck,  dull  clod,  knew  nothing,  cared  nothing,  felt  nothing 
as  to  the  motives  or  purposes  of  his  employer.  Honest  love  or 
selfish  vice,  it  was  the  same  to  him.  He  saw  only  the  one  sove- 
reign which,  with  astounded  eyes,  he  still  gazed  at  on  his  palm, 
and  the  vision  of  the  sovereign  that  was  yet  to  come : 

"  Scandit  aeratas  vitiosa  naves 
Cura  :  nee  turmas  equitum  relinquit." 

It  was  the  Selfishness  of  London,  calm  and  stolid,  whether 
i  the  track  of  innocence  or  at  the  command  of  guile. 

At  half-past  ten  o'clock  Percival  St.  John  was  seated  in  his 

om,  and  the  sweeper  stood  at  the  threshold.  Wealth  and 
penury  seemed  brought  into  visible  contact  in  the  persons  of 
the  visitor  and  the  host.  The  dwelling  is  held  by  some  to  give 
an  index  to  the  character  of  the  owner:  if  so,  Percival' s  apart- 
ments differed  much  from  those  generally  favored  by  young 
men  of  rank  and  fortune.  On  the  one  hand  it  had  none  of 
that  affectation  of  superior  taste,  evinced  in  marqueterie  and  gild- 
ing, or  the  more  picturesque  discomfort  of  high-backed  chairs 
and  mediaeval  curiosities  which  prevails  in  the  daintier  abodes 
of  fastidious  bachelors.  Nor,  on  the  other  hand,  had  it  the 
sporting  character  which  individualizes  the  ruder  juveniles  "qui 
gaiident  equis,"  betrayed  by  engravings  of  racers  and  cele- 
brated fox-hunts,  relieved,  perhaps,  if  the  Nimrod  condescend 
to  a  cross  of  the  Lovelace,  with  portraits  of  figurantes,  and 
ideals  of  French  sentiment,  entitled,  "LeSoir,"  or  "LaRev- 
eillee"  "L'£s/>flir,"  or  " L' Abandon."  But  the  rooms  had  a 
physiognomy  of  their  own,  from  their  exquisite  neatness  and 
cheerful  simplicity.  The  chintz  draperies  were  lively  with  gay 
flowers ;  books  filled  up  the  niches ;  here  and  there  were  small 
pictures,  chiefly  sea-pieces,  well  chosen,  well  placed. 

There  might,  indeed,  have  been  something  almost  effeminate 
in  a  certain  inexpressible  purity  of  taste,  and  a  cleanliness  of 
detail  that  seemed  actually  brilliant,  had  not  the  folding  doors 
allowed  a  glimpse  of  a  plainer  apartment,  with  fencing  foils  and 
boxing  gloves  Ranged  on  the  wall,  and  a  cricket-bat  resting  care- 
lessly in  the  corner.  These  gave  a  redeeming  air  of  manliness 
to  the  rooms,  but  it  was  the  manliness  of  a  boy;  half-girl,  if  you 


2OS  LtiCRETJA. 

please,  in  the  purity  of  thought  that  pervaded  one  room,  all 
boy  in  the  playful  pursuits  that  were  made  manifest  in  the 
other.  Simple,  however,  as  this  abode  really  was,  poor  Beck 
had  never  been  admitted  to  the  sight  of  anything  half  so  fine. 
He  stood  at  the  door  for  a  moment,  and  stared  about  him,  be- 
wildered and  dazzled.  But  his  natural  torpor  to  things  that 
concerned  him  not  soon  brought  to  him  the  same  stoicism  that 
philosophy  gives  the  strong ;  and  after  the  first  surprise,  his  eye 
quietly  settled  on  his  employer.  St.  John  rose  eagerly  from  the 
sofa,  on  which  he  had  been  contemplating  the  starlit  tree-tops 
of  Chesterfield  Gardens : 

"Well,  well,"  said  Percival. 

"J7o\d  Brompton,"  said  Beck,  with  a  brevity  of  word  and 
clearness  of  perception  worthy  a  Spartan. 

"Old  Brompton?"  repeated  Percival,  thinking  the  reply  the 
most  natural  in  the  world. 

"In  a  big  ous  by  hisself, "  continued  Beck,  "with  a  igh  vail 
in  front." 

"You  would  know  it  again?" 

"In  course;  he's  so  wery  pecular. " 

"He?     Who?" 

"Vy,  the  ous.  The  young  lady  got  out,  and  the  hold  folks 
driv  back.  I  did  not  go  arter  them  !  "  and  Beck  looked  sly. 

"So — I  must  find  out  the  name." 

"I  axed  at  the  public,"  said  Beck,  proud  of  his  diplomacy. 
"They  keeps  a  sarvant  vot  takes  half  a  pint  at  her  meals.  The 
young  lady's  ma  be  a  foriner. " 

"A  foreigner!     Then  she  lives  there  with  her  mother?' 

"So  they  'spose  at  the  public." 

"And  the  name?" 

Beck  shook  his  head.  "Tis  a  French  un,  your  onor;  but 
the  sarvant's  is  Martha." 

"You  must  meet  me  at  Brompton,  near  the  turnpike,  to-mor- 
row, and  show  me  the  house." 

"Vy,  I's  in  bizness  all  day,  please  your  onor." 

"In  bizness?" 

"I's  the  place  of  the  crossing,"  said  Beck,  with  much  dig- 
nity; "but  arter  eight  I  goes  vhere  I  likes." 

"To-morrow  evening,  then,  at  half-past  eight,  by  the  turn- 
pike." 

Beck  pulled  his  forelock  assentingly. 

"There's  the  sovereign  I  promised  you,  my  poor  fellow :  much 
good  may  it  do  you.  Perhaps  you  have  some  father  or  mother 
whose  heart  it  will  glad." 


LUCRETIA.  fio7 

"I  never  had  no  such  thing,"  replied  Beck,  turning  the  coin 
in  his  hand. 

"Well,  don't  spend  it  in  drink." 

"I  never  drinks  nothing  but  svipes." 

"Then,"  said  Percival  laughingly,  "what,  my  good  friend, 
will  you  ever  do  with  your  money?" 

Beck  put  his  finger  to  his  nose,  sunk  his  voice  into  a  whisper, 
and  replied  solemnly:  "I  'as  a  mattris." 

"A  mistress,"  said  Percival;  "Oh,  a  sweetheart!  well;  but 
if  she's  a  good  girl,  and  loves  you,  she'll  not  let  you  spend  your 
money  on  her." 

"I  haint  such  a  ninny  as  that,"  said  Beck,  with  majestic  con- 
tempt. "I  'spises  the  flat  that  is  done  brown  by  the  blowens. 
I  'as  a  mattris." 

"A  mattress!  A  mattress!  Well,  what  has  that  to  do  with 
the  money?" 

"Vy,  I  lines  it." 

Percival  looked  puzzled.  "Oh,"  said  he,  after  a  thoughtful 
pause,  and  in  a  tone  of  considerable  compassion,  "I  under- 
stand; you  sew  your  money  in  your  mattress.  My  poor,  poor 
lad,  you  can  do  better  than  that !  There  are  the  savings  banks. " 

Beck  looked  frightened:  "I  'opes  your 'onor  vont  tell  no 
vun.  I  'opes  no  vun  vont  go  for  to  put  my  tin  vere  I  shall 
know  nothing  vatsomever  about  it.  Now  I  knows  vere  it  is ; 
and  I  lays  on  it." 

"Do  you  sleep  more  soundly  when  you  lie  on  your  treasure?" 

"No;  it's  hodd,"  said  Beck  musingly,  "but  the  more  I  lines 
it,  the  vorse  I  sleeps." 

Percival  laughed;  but  there  was  melancholy  in  his  laughter; 
something  in  the  forlorn,  benighted,  fatherless,  squalid  miser, 
went  to  the  core  of  his  open,  generous  heart. 

"Do  you  ever  read  your  Bible?"  said  he,  after  a  pause;  "Or 
even  the  newspaper?" 

"I  does  not  read  nothing,  cos  vy,  I  haint  ben  made  a  scholard, 
like  swell  Tim,  as  was  lagged  for  a  forgery." 

"You  go  to  church  on  a  Sunday?" 

"Yes;   I  'as  a  veekly  hingagement  at  the  New  Road." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"To  see  arter  the  gig  of  a  gemman  vot  comes  from  'Ighgate." 

Percival  lifted  his  brilliant  eyes,  and  they  were  moistened  with 
a  heavenly  dew,  on  the  dull  face  of  his  fellow-creature.  Beck 
made  a  scrape,  looked  round,  shambled  back  to  the  door,  and 
ran  home  through  the  lamplit  streets  of  the  great  mart  of  the 
Christian  universe,  to  sew  the  gold  in  his  mattress. 


208  LUCRETtA. 

CHAPTER  III. 

EARLY    TRAINING    FOR   AN    UPRIGHT    GENTLEMAN. 

PERCIVAL  ST.  JOHN  had  been  brought  up  at  home  under  the 
eye  of  his  mother  and  the  care  of  an  excellent  man,  who  had 
been  tutor  to  himself  and  his  brothers.  The  tutor  was  not 
much  of  a  classical  scholar,  for,  in  great  measure,  he  had  edu- 
cated himself;  and  he  who  does  so,  usually  lacks  the  polish 
and  brilliancy  of  one  whose  footsteps  have  been  led  early  to 
the  Temple  of  the  Muses.  In  fact,  Captain  Greville  was  a  gal- 
lant soldier,  with  whom  Vernon  St.  John  had  been  acquainted 
in  his  own  brief  military  career,  and  whom  circumstances  had 
so  reduced  in  life  as  to  compel  him  to  sell  his  commission,  and 
live,  as  he  could.  He  had  always  been  known  in  his  regiment 
as  a  reading  man,  and  his  authority  looked  up  to  in  all  the  dis- 
putes as  to  history  and  dates,  and  literary  anecdotes,  which 
might  occur  at  the  mess-table.  Vernon  considered  him  the 
most  learned  man  of  his  acquaintance ;  and,  when  accidentally 
meeting  him  in  London,  he  learned  his  fallen  fortunes,  he  con- 
gratulated himself  on  a  very  brilliant  idea,  when  he  suggested 
that  Captain  Greville  should  assist  him  in  the  education  of  his 
boys  and  the  management  of  his  estate.  At  first,  all  that  Gre- 
ville modestly  undertook,  with  respect  to  the  former,  and  in- 
deed was  expected  to  do,  was  to  prepare  the  young  gentlemen  for 
Eton,  to  which  Vernon,  with  the  natural  predilection  of  an  Eton 
man,  destined  his  sons.  But  the  sickly  constitutions  of  the  two 
elder  justified  Lady  Mary  in  her  opposition  to  a  public  school ; 
and  Percival  conceived  early  so  strong  an  affection  for  a  sail- 
or's life,  that  the  father's  intentions  were  frustrated.  The  two 
elder  continued  their  education  at  home ;  and  Percival,  at  an 
earlier  age  than  usual,  went  to  sea.  The  last  was  fortunate 
enough  to  have  for  his  captain  one  of  that  new  race  of  naval 
officers  who,  well  educated  and  accomplished,  form  a  notable 
contrast  to  the  old  heroes  of  Smollett.  Percival,  however,  had 
not  been  long  in  the  service  before  the  deaths  of  his  two  elder 
brothers,  preceded  by  that  of  his  father,  made  him  the  head 
of  his  ancient  house,  and  the  sole  prop  of  his  mother's  earthly 
hopes.  He  conquered  with  a  generous  effort  the  passion  for 
his  noble  profession,  which  service  had  but  confirmed,  and 
returned  home  with  his  fresh,  child-like  nature  uncorrupted, 
his  constitution  strengthened,  his  lively  and  impressionable 
Blind  braced  by  the  experience  of  danger  and  the  habits  of 


LUCRETIA.  209 

duty,  and  quietly  resumed  his  reading  under  Captain  Greville, 
who  had  moved  from  the  hall  to  a  small  house  in  the  village. 

Now,  the  education  he  had  received,  from  first  to  last,  was 
less  adapted  prematurely  to  quicken  his  intellect  and  excite 
his  imagination  than  to  warm  his  heart  and  elevate,  while  it 
chastened,  his  moral  qualities;  for  in  Lady  Mary  there  was, 
amidst  singular  sweetness  of  temper,  a  high  cast  of  character 
and  thought.  She  was  not  what  is  commonly  called  clever, 
and  her  experience  of  the  world  was  limited,  compared  to  that 
of  most  women  of  similar  rank  who  pass  their  lives  in  the  vast 
theatre  of  London.  But  she  became  superior  by  a  certain 
single-heartedness  which  made  truth  so  habitual  to  her,  that  the 
light  in  which  she  lived  rendered  all-  objects  around  her  clear. 
One  who  is  always  true  in  the  great  duties  of  life,  is  nearly 
always  wise.  And  Vernon,  when  he  had  fairly  buried  his 
faults,  had  felt  a  noble  shame  for  the  excesses  into  which  they 
had  led  him.  Gradually  more  and  more  wedded  to  his  home, 
he  dropped  his  old  companions.  He  set  brave  guard  on  his 
talk  (his  habits  now  required  no  guard),  lest  any  of  the  ancient 
levity  should  taint  the  ears  of  his  children.  Nothing  is  more 
common  in  parents  than- their  desire  that  their  children  should 
escape  their  faults.  We  scarcely  know  ourselves  till  we  have 
children,  and  then,  if  we  love  them  duly,  we  look  narrowly  into 
failings  that  become  vices,  when  they  serve  as  examples  to  the 
young. 

The  inborn  gentleman  with  the  native  courage,  and  spirit, 
and  horror  of  trick  and  falsehood  which  belong  to  that  chival- 
rous abstraction,  survived  almost  alone  in  Vernon  St.  John ; 
and  his  boys  sprang  up  in  the  atmosphere  of  generous  senti- 
ments and  transparent  truth.  The  tutor  was  in  harmony  with 
the  parents — a  soldier  every  inch  of  him — not  a  mere  discipli- 
narian, yet  with  a  profound  sense  of  duty  and  a  knowledge 
that  duty  is  to  be  found  in  attention  to  details.  In  calculat- 
ing the  habit  of  subordination  so  graceful  to  the  young,  he 
knew  how  to  make  himself  beloved,  and  what  is  harder  still, 
to  be  understood.  The  soul  of  this  poor  soldier  was  white 
and  unstained  as  the  arms  of  a  maiden  knight;  it  was  full  of 
suppressed,  but  lofty  enthusiasm.  He  had  been  ill-used, 
whether  by  Fate  or  the  Horse  Guards ;  his  career  had  been  a 
failure,  but  he  was  as  loyal  as  if  his  hand  held  the  field- 
marshal's  truncheon  and  the  garter  bound  his  knee.  He  was 
above  all  querulous  discontent.  From  him,  no  less  than  from 
his  parents,  Percival  caught  not  only  a  spirit  of  honor  worthy 
the  antiqua  fides  of  the  poets,  but  that  peculiar  cleanliness  of 


210  LUCRETIA. 

thought,  if  the  expression  may  be  used,  which  belongs  to  the 
ideal  of  youthful  chivalry.  In  mere  book-learning,  Percival, 
as  may  be  supposed,  was  not  very  extensively  read;  but  his 
mind,  if  not  largely  stored,  had  a  certain  unity  of  culture  which 
gave  it  stability  and  individualized  its  operations.  Travels, 
voyages,  narratives  of  heroic  adventure,  biographies  of  great 
men,  had  made  the  favorite  pasture  of  his  enthusiasm.  To 
this  was  added  the  more  stirring,  and,  perhaps,  the  more  gen- 
uine order  of  poets  who  make  you  feel  and  g!ow,  rather  than 
doubt  and  ponder.  He  knew,  at  least,  enough  of  Greek  to 
enjoy  old  Homer;  and  if  he  could  have  come  but  ill  through 
a  college  examination  into  ^Eschylus  and  Sophocles,  he  had 
dwelt  with  fresh  delight  on  the  rushing  storm  of  spears  in  the 
"Seven  before  Thebes,"  and  wept  over  the  heroic  calamities  of 
"Antigone."  In  science,  he  was  no  adept;  but  his  clear  good 
sense,  and  quick  appreciation  of  positive  truths,  had  led  him 
easily  through  the  elementary  mathematics,  and  his  somewhat 
martial  spirit  had  made  him  delight  in  the  old  captain's  lec- 
tures on  military  tactics.  Had  he  remained  in  the  navy,  Perci- 
val St.  John  would,  doubtless,  have  been  distinguished.  His 
talents  fitted  him  for  straightforward,  manly  action;  and  he  had 
a  generous  desire  of  distinction,  vague,  perhaps,  the  moment 
he  was  taken  from  his  profession,  and  curbed  by  his  diffidence 
in  himself  and  his  sense  of  deficiencies  in  the  ordinary  routine 
of  purely  classical  education.  Still  he  had  in  him  all  the  ele- 
ments of  a  true  man — a  man  to  go  through  life  with  a  firm  step 
and  a  clear  conscience,  and  a  gallant  hope.  Such  a  man  may 
not  win  fame, — that  is  an  accident — but  he  must  occupy  no 
despicable  place  in  the  movement  of  the  world. 

It  was  at  first  intended  to  send  Percival  to  Oxford,  but  for 
some  reason  or  other  that  design  was  abandoned.  Perhaps 
Lady  Mary,  over-cautious,  as  mothers  left  alone  sometimes 
are,  feared  the  contagion  to  which  a  young  man  of  brilliant 
expectations,  and  no  studious  turn,  is  necessarily  exposed  in  all 
places  of  miscellaneous  resort.  So  Percival  was  sent  abroad 
for  two  years  under  the  guardianship  of  Captain  Greville.  On 
his  return,  at  the  age  of  nineteen,  the  great  world  lay  before 
him,  and  he  longed  ardently  to  enter.  For  a  year  Lady  Mary's 
fears  and  fond  anxieties  detained  him  at  Laughton  ;  but,  though 
his  great  tenderness  for  his  mother  withheld  Percival  from  op- 
posing her  wishes  by  his  own,  this  interval  of  inaction  affected 
visibly  his  health  and  spirits.  Captain  Greville,  a  man  of  the 
world,  saw  the  cause  sooner  than  Lady  Mary,  and  one  morn- 
ing, earlier  than  usual,  he  walked  up  to  the  Hall, 


LUCRETIA.  211 

The  captain,  with  all  his  deference  to  the  sex,  was  a  plain 
man  enough,  when  business  was  to  be  done.  Like  his  great 
commander,  he  came  to  the  point  in  a  few  words. 

"My  dear  Lady  Mary,  our  boy  must  go  to  London;  we  are 
killing  him  here." 

"Mr.  Greville!"  cried  Lady  Mary,  turning  pale  and  putting 
aside  her  embroidery;  "Killing  him?" 

"Killing  the  man  in  him.  I  don't  mean  to  alarm  you;  I 
dare  say  his  lungs  are  sound  enough,  and  that  his  heart  would 
bear  the  sthenoscope  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  College  of  Sur- 
geons. But,  my  dear  ma'am,  Percival  is  to  be  a  man — it  is  the 
man  you  are  killing  by  keeping  him  tied  to  your  apron-string." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Greville!  1  am  sure  you  don't  wish  to  wound 
me,  but — " 

"I  beg  ten  thousand  pardons.  I  am  rough,  but  truth  is 
rough  sometimes." 

"It  is  not  for  my  sake,"  said  the  mother  warmly,  and  with 
tears  in  her  eyes,  "that  I  have  wished  him  to  be  here.  If  he 
is  dull,  can  we  not  fill  the  house  for  him?" 

"Fill  a  thimble,  my  dear  Lady  Mary — Percival  should  have 
a  plunge  in  the  ocean." 

"But  he  is  so  young  yet,  that  horrid  London!  Such  temp- 
tations— fatherless,  too!" 

"I  have  no  fear  of  the  result  if  Percival  goes  now  while  his 
principles  are  strong,  and  his  imagination  not  inflamed;  but  if 
we  keep  him  here  much  longer  against  his  bent,  he  will  learn 
to  brood  and  to  muse,  write  bad  poetry  perhaps,  and  think  the 
world  withheld  from  him  a  thousand  times  more  delightful  than  it 
is.  This  very  dread  of  temptation  will  provoke  his  curiosity, 
irritate  his  fancy,  make  him  imagine  the  temptation  must  be  a 
very  delightful  thing.  For  the  first  time  in  my  life,  ma'am,  I 
have  caught  him  sighing  over  fashionable  novels,  and  subscrib- 
ing to  the  Southampton  Circulating  Library.  Take  my  word 
for  it,  it  is  time  that  Percival  should  begin  life,  and  swim 
without  corks." 

Lady  Mary  had  a  profound  confidence  in  Greville's  judg- 
ment and  affection  for  Percival,  and  like  a  sensible  woman 
she  was  aware  of  her  own  weakness.  She  remained  silent  for 
a  few  moments,  and  then  said,  with  an  effort: 

"You  know  how  hateful  London  is  to  me  now;  how  unfit  I 
am  to  return  to  the  hollow  forms  of  its  society;  still,  if  you 
think  it  right,  I  will  take  a  house  for  the  season,  and  Percival 
can  still  be  under  our  eye." 

"No,   ma'am,  pardon  me,  that  will  be  the  surest  way  to 


212  .  LUCRETIA. 

make  him  either  discontented  or  hypocritical.  A  young  man 
of  his  prospects  and  temper  can  hardly  be  expected  to  chime 
in  with  all  our  sober,  old-fashioned  habits.  You  will  impose 
on  him — if  he  is  to  conform  to  our  hours,  and  notions,  and 
quiet  set — a  thousand  irksome  restraints;  and  what  will  be  the 
consequence?  In  a  year,  he  will  be  of  age,  and  can  throw  us 
off  altogether,  if  he  pleases.  I  know  the  boy:  don't  seem  to 
mistrust  him — he  may  be  trusted.  You  place  the  true  con- 
straint on  temptation,  when  you  say  to  him,  'We  confide  to 
you  our  dearest  treasure,  your  honor,  your  morals,  your  con- 
science, yourself!'  ' 

"But,  at  least,  you  will  go  with  him,  if  it  must  be  so,"  said 
Lady  Mary,  after  a  few  timid  arguments,  from  which,  one  by 
one,  she  was  driven. 

"I !  What  for?  To  be  a  jest  of  the  young  puppies  he  must 
know — to  make  him  ashamed  of  himself  and  me — himself  as  a 
milksop,  and  me  as  a  dry  nurse." 

"But  this  was  not  so  abroad!" 

"Abroad,  ma'am,  I  gave  him  full  swing,  I  promise  you; 
and  when  we  went  abroad,  he  was  two  years  younger." 

"But  he  is  a  mere  child,  still." 

"Child,  Lady  Mary!  At  his  age,  I  had  gone  through  two 
seiges.  There  are  younger  faces  than  his  at  a  mess-room. 
Come,  come !  I  know  what  you  fear — he  may  commit  some 
follies;  very  likely.  He  may  be  taken  in,  and  lose  some 
money — he  can  afford  it,  and  he  will  get  experience  in  return. 
Vices  he  has  none.  I  have  seen  him — ay,  with  the  vicious. 
Send  him  out  against  the  world,  like  a  saint  of  old,  with  his 
Bible  in  his  hand,  and  no  spot  on  his  robe.  Let  him  see  fairly 
what  is,  not  stay  here  to  dream  of  what  is  not.  And  when 
he's  of  age,  ma'am,  we  must  get  him  an  object — a  pursuit; 
start  him  for  the  county,  and  make  him  serve  the  State;  he  will 
understand  that  business  pretty  well.  Tush!  tush!  what  is 
there  to  cry  at?" 

The  Captain  prevailed.  We  don't  say  that  his  advice 
would  have  been  equally  judicious  for  all  youths  of  Percival's 
age;  but  he  knew  well  the  nature  to  which  he  confided;  he 
knew  well  how  strong  was  that  young  heart  in  its  healthful 
simplicity  and  instinctive  rectitude ;  and  he  appreciated  its 
manliness  not  too  highly  when  he  felt  that  all  evident  props  and 
aids  would  be  but  irritating  tokens  of  distrust. 

And  thus,  armed  only  with  letters  of  introduction,  his  moth- 
er's tearful  admonitions,  and  Greville's  experienced  warnings, 
Percival  St.  John  was  launched  into  London  life.  After  the 


LUCRETIA.  213 

first  month  or  so,  Greville  came  up  to  visit  him,  do  him  sundry 
kind  invisible  offices  amongst  his  old  friends,  help  him  to  equip 
his  apartments,  and  mount  his  stud ;  and,  wholly  satisfied  with 
the  results  of  his  experiment,  returned  in  high  spirits  with 
flattering  reports  to  the  anxious  mother. 

But,  indeed,  the  tone  of  Percival's  letters  would  have  been 
sufficient  to  allay  even  maternal  anxiety.  He  did  not  write,  as 
sons  are  apt  to  do,  short  excuses,  for  not  writing  more  at  length, 
unsatisfactory  compressions  of  details  (exciting  worlds  of  con- 
jecture), into  a  hurried  sentence.  Frank  and  overflowing, 
those  delightful  epistles  gave  accounts  fresh  from  the  first  im- 
pressions of  all  he  saw  and  did.  There  was  a  racy,  wholesome 
gusto  in  his  enjoyment  of  novelty  and  independence.  His 
balls  and  his  dinners,  and  his  cricket  at  Lord's /  his  partners, 
and  his  companions ;  his  general  gayety,  his  occasional  ennui, 
furnished  ample  materials  to  one  who  felt  he  was  correspond- 
ing with  another  heart,  and  had  nothing  to  fear  or  conceal. 

But  about  two  months  before  this  portion  of  our  narrative 
opens  with  the  coronation,  Lady  Mary's  favorite  sister,  who  had 
never  married,  and  who,  by  the  death  of  her  parents,  was  left 
alone  in  the  worse  than  widowhood  of  an  old  maid,  had  been 
ordered  to  Pisa,  for  a  complaint  that  betrayed  pulmonary  symp- 
toms; and  Lady  Mary,  with  her  usual  unselfishness,  conquered 
both  her  aversion  to  movement  and  her  wish  to  be  in  reach  of 
her  son,  to  accompany  abroad  this  beloved  and  solitary  rela- 
tive. Captain  Greville  was  pressed  into  service  as  their  joint 
cavalier.  And  thus  Percival's  habitual  intercourse  with  his 
two  principal  correspondents  received  a  temporary  check. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

JOHN    ARDWORTH. 

AT  noon  the  next  day,  Beck,  restored  to  his  grandeur,  was 
at  the  helm  of  his  state ;  Percival  was  vainly  trying  to  be 
amused  by  the  talk  of  two  or  three  loungers  who  did  him  the 
honor  to  smoke  a  cigar  in  his  rooms;  and  John  Ardworth  sat 
in  his  dingy  cell  in  Gray's  Inn,  with  a  pile  of  law  books  on  the 
table,  and  the  daily  newspapers  carpeting  a  footstool  of  "Han- 
sard's Debates"  upon  the  floor — no  unusual  combination  of 
studies  amongst  the  poorer  and  more  ardent  students  of  the  law, 
who  often  owe  their  earliest,  nor  perhaps  their  least  noble 
earnings,  to  employment  in  the  empire  of  the  Press.  By  the 
power  of  a  mind  habituated  to  labor,  and  backed  by  a  frame  of 


214  LUCRETIA. 

remarkable  strength  and  endurance,  Ardworth  grappled  with 
his  arid  studies  not  the  less  manfully  for  a  night  mainly  spent 
in  a  printer's  office,  and  stinted  to  less»that  four  hours'  actual 
sleep.  But  that  sleep  was  profound  and  refreshing  as  a  peas- 
ant's. The  nights  thus  devoted  to  the  Press  (he  was  employed 
in  the  sub-editing  of  a  daily  journal),  the  mornings  to  the 
law,  he  kept  distinct  the  two  separate  callings  with  a  stern  sub- 
division of  labor,  which  in  itself  proved  the  vigor  of  his  energy 
and  the  resolution  of  his  will.  Early  compelled  to  shift  for 
himself,  and  carve  out  his  own  way,  he  had  obtained  a  small 
fellowship  at  the  small  college  in  which  he  had  passed  his 
academic  career.  Previous  to  his  arrival  in  London,  by  con- 
tributions to  political  periodicals,  and  a. high  reputation  at  that 
noble  debating  society  in  Cambridge  which  has  trained  some 
of  the  most  eminent  of  living  public  men,*  he  had  established 
a  name  which  was  immediately  useful  to  him  in  obtaining  em- 
ployment on  the  Press.  Like  most  young  men  of  practical 
ability,  he  was  an  eager  politician.  The  popular  passion  of 
the  day  kindled  his  enthusiasm,  and  stirred  the  depths  of  his 
soul  with  magnificent,  though  exaggerated,  hopes  in  the  des- 
tiny of  his  race.  He  identified  himself  with  the  people;  his 
stout  heart  beat  loud  in  their  stormy  cause.  His  compositions, 
if  they  wanted  that  knowledge  of  men,  that  subtle  comprehen- 
sion of  the  true  state  of  parties,  that  happy  temperance  in 
which  the  crowning  wisdom  of  statesmen  must  consist — quali- 
ties which  experience  alone  can  give — excited  considerable  at- 
tention by  their  bold  eloquence  and  hardy  logic.  They  were 
suited  to  the  time.  But  John  Ardworth  had  that  solidity  of 
understanding  which  betokens  more  than  talent,  and  which  is 
the  usual  substratum  of  genius.  He  would  not  depend  alone 
on  the  precarious  and  often  unhonored  toils  of  polemical  liter- 
ature for  that  distinction  on  which  he  had  fixed  his  steadfast 
heart.  Patiently  he  plodded  on  through  the  formal  drudgeries 
of  his  new  profession,  lighting  up  dullness  by  his  own  acute 
comprehension,  weaving  complexities  into  simple  system  by 
the  grasp  of  an  intellect  inured  to  generalize;  and  learning 
to  love  even  what  was  most  distasteful,  by  the  sense  of  diffi- 
culty overcome,  and  the  clearer  vision  which  every  step 
through  the  mists,  and  up  the  hill,  gave  of  the  land  beyond. 
Of  what  the  superficial  are  apt  to  consider  genius,  John  Ard- 

*  Amongst  those  whom  the  "  Union  "  almost  contemporaneously  prepared  for  public 
life,  and  whose  distinction  has  kept  the  promise  of  their  youth,  we  may  mention  the  emi- 
nent barristers,  Messrs.  Austin  and  Cockburn  ;  and  amongst  statesmen,  Lord  Grey,  Mr.  C. 
Buller,  Mr.  Charles  Villiers.  and  Mr.  Macaulay.  Nor  ought  we  to  forget  those  brilliant 
competitors  for  the  prizes  of  the  University,  Dr.  Kennedy  (now  head-master  of  Shrewsbury 
School)  and  the  late  Winthrop  M.  Praed. 


LUCRETIA.  Sig 

worth  had  but  little.  He  had  some  imagination  (for  a  true 
thinker  is  never  without  that),  but  he  had  a  very  slight  share 
of  fancy.  He  did  not  flirt  with  the  Muses;  on  the  granite  of 
his  mind,  few  flowers  could  spring.  His  style,  rushing  and 
earnest,  admitted  at  times  of  a  humor  not  without  delicacy, 
though  less  delicate  than  forcible  and  deep,  but  it  was  little 
adorned  with  wit,  and  still  less  with  poetry.  Yet  Ardworth 
had  genius,  and  genius  ample  and  magnificent.  There  was 
genius  in  that  industrious  energy  so  patient  in  the  conquest  of 
detail,  so  triumphant  in  the  perception  of  results.  There  was 
genius  in  that  kindly  sympathy  with  mankind ;  genius  in  that 
stubborn  determination  to  succeed ;  genius  in  that  vivid  com- 
prehension of  affairs,  and  the  large  interests  of  the  world; 
genius  fed  in  the  labors  of  the  closet,  and  evinced  the  instant 
he  was  brought  in  contact  with  men ;  evinced  in  readiness  of 
thought,  grasp  of  memory,  even  in  a  rough  imperious  man- 
ner, which  showed  him  born  to  speak  strong  truths,  and  in 
their  name  to  struggle  and  command. 

Rough  was  this  man  often  in  his  exterior,  though  really  gen- 
tle and  kind-hearted.  John  Ardworth  had  sacrificed  to  no 
Graces;  he  would  have  thrown  Lord  Chesterfield  into  a  fever. 
Not  that  he  was  ever  vulgar,  for  vulgarity  implies  affectation 
of  refinement,  but  he  talked  loud,  and  laughed  loud  if  the 
whim  seized  him,  and  rubbed  his  great  hands  with  a  boyish 
heartiness  of  glee,  if  he  discomfited  an  adversary  in  argument. 
Or  sometimes  he  would  sit  abstracted  and  moody,  and  answer 
briefly  and  boorishly  those  who  interrupted  him.  Young  men 
were  mostly  afraid  of  him,  though  he  wanted  but  fame  to  ha.t; 
a  set  of  admiring  disciples.  Old  men  censured  his  presump- 
tion, and  recoiled  from  the  novelty  of  his  ideas.  Women 
alone  liked  and  appreciated  him,  as,  with  their  finer  insight 
into  character,  they  generally  do  what  is  honest  and  sterling. 
Some  strange  failings,  too,  had  John  Ardworth ;  some  of  the 
usual  vagaries  and  contradictions  of  clever  men.  As  a  system, 
he  was  rigidly  abstemious.  For  days  together  he  would  drink 
nothing  but  water,  eat  nothing  but  bread,  or  hard  biscuit,  or  a 
couple  of  eggs:  then  having  wound  up  some  allotted  portion 
of  work,  Ardworth  would  indulge  what  he  called  a  self- 
saturnalia;  would  stride  off  with  old  college  friends  to  an  inn 
in  one  of  the  suburbs,  and  spend,  as  he  said  triumphantly,  "a 
day  of  blessed  debauch" !  Innocent  enough,  for  the  most 
part,  the  debauch  was;  consisting  in  cracking  jests,  stringing 
puns,  a  fish  dinner,  perhaps,  and  an  extra  bottle  or  two  of  fiery 
port.  Sometimes  this  jollity,  which  was  always  loud  and  up- 


21 6  LUCRET1A. 

roarious,  found  its  scene  in  one  of  the  cider  cellars  or  mid- 
night taverns,  but  Ardworth's  labors  on  the  Press  made  that 
latter  dissipation  extremely  rare.  These  relaxations  were 
always  succeeded  by  a  mien  more  than  usually  grave,  a  man- 
ner more  than  usually  curt  and  ungracious,  an  application 
more  than  ever  rigorous  and  intense.  John  Ardworth  was  not 
a  good-tempered  man,  but  he  was  the  best-natured  man  that 
ever  breathed.  He  was,  like  all  ambitious  persons,  very  much 
occupied  with  self,  and  yet  it  would  have  been  a  ludicrous  mis- 
application of  words  to  call  him  selfish.  Even  the  desire  of 
fame  which  absorbed  him  was  but  a  part  of  benevolence — a 
desire  to  promote  justice  and  to  serve  his  kind. 

John  Ardworth's  shaggy  brows  were  bent  over  his  open  .  ol- 
umes,  when  his  clerk  entered  noiselessly,  and  placed  on  his 
table  a  letter  which  the  two-penny  postman  had  just  delivered. 
With  an  impatient  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  Ardwroth  glanced 
towards  the  superscription,  but  his  eye  became  earnest  and  his 
interest  roused,  as  he  recognized  the  hand.  "Again!"  he 
muttered;  "What  mystery  is  this?  Who  can  feel  such  inter- 
est in  my  fate?"  He  broke  the  seal,  and  read  as  follows: 

"Do  you  neglect  my  advice,  or  have  you  begun  to  act  upon 
it?  Are  you  contented  only  with  the  slow  process  of  mechani- 
cal application,  or  will  you  make  a  triumphant  effort  to  abridge 
your  apprenticeship,  and  emerge  at  once  into  fame  and  power? 
I  repeat  that  you  fritter  away  your  talents  and  your  opportuni- 
ties upon  this  miserable  task-work  on  a  journal.  I  am  impa- 
tient for  you.  Come  forward  yourself,  put  your  force  and 
your  knowledge  into  some  work  of  which  the  world  may  know 
the  author.  Day  after  day,  I  am  examining  into  your  destiny, 
and  day  after  day  I  believe  more  and  more  that  you  are  not 
fated  for  the  tedious  drudgery  to  which  you  doom  your 
youth.  I  would  have  you  great,  but  in  the  senate,  not  a 
wretched  casuist  at  the  bar.  Appear  in  public  as  an  individual 
authority,  not  one  of  that  nameless  troop  of  shadows,  con- 
temned while  dreaded  as  the  Press.  Write  for  renown.  Go 
into  the  world,  and  make  friends.  Soften  your  rugged  bearing. 
Lift  yourself  above  that  herd  whom  you  call  the  people.  What 
if  you  are  born  of  the  noble  class  ?  What  if  your  career  is  as  Gen- 
tleman, not  Plebeian?  Want  not  for  money.  Use  what  I  send 
you,  as  the  young  and  the  well-born  should  use  it;  or  let  it, 
at  least,  gain  you  a  respite  from  toils  for  bread,  and  support 
you  in  your  struggle  to  emancipate  yourself  from  obscurity 
into  fame.  YOUR  UNKNOWN  FRIEND." 


LUCRETIA.  217 

A  bank-note  for  £100  dropped  from  the  envelope,  as  Ard- 
worth  silently  replaced  the  letter  on  the  table. 

Thrice  before  had  he  received  communications  in  the  same 
handwriting,  and  much  to  the  same  effect.  Certainly,  to  a 
mind  of  less  strength,  there  would  have  been  something  very 
unsettling  in  those  vague  hints  of  a  station  higher  than  he 
owned — of  a  future  at  variance  with  the  toilsome  lot  he  had 
drawn  from  the  urn ;  but  after  a  single  glance  over  his  lone 
position  in  all  its  bearings,  and  probable  expectations,  Ard- 
worth's  steady  sense  shook  off  the  slight  disturbance  such 
misty  vaticinations  had  effected.  His  mother's  family  was 
indeed  unknown  to  him ;  he  was  even  ignorant  of  her  maiden 
name.  But  that  very  obscurity  seemed  unfavorable  to  much 
hope  from  such  a  quarter.  The  connections  with  the  rich 
and  well-born  are  seldom  left  obscure.  From  his  father's 
family  he  had  not  one  expectation.  More  had  he  been  moved 
by  exhortations  now  generally  repeated,  but  in  a  previous  letter 
more  precisely  detailed,  viz.,  to  appeal  to  the  reading  public 
in  his  acknowledged  person,  and  by  some  striking  and  original 
work.  This  idea  he  had  often  contemplated  and  revolved; 
but  partly  the  necessity  of  keeping  pace  with  the  many  exigen- 
cies of  the  hour,  had  deterred  him,  and  partly  also  the  convic- 
tion of  his  sober  judgment,  that  a  man  does  himself  no  good  at 
the  bar,  even  by  the  most  brilliant  distinction  gained  in  dis- 
cursive fields.  He  had  the  natural  yearning  of  the  Restless 
Genius;  and  the  Patient  Genius  (higher  power  of  the  two)  had 
suppressed  the  longing.  Still,  so  far,  the  whispers  of  his  cor- 
respondent tempted  and  aroused.  But  hitherto  he  had  sought 
to  persuade  himself  that  the  communications  thus  strangely 
forced  on  him  arose,  perhaps,  from  idle  motives — a  jest,  it 
might  be,  of  one  of  his  old  college  friends,  or  at  best  the  vain 
enthusiasm  of  some  more  credulous  admirer.  But  the  enclos- 
ure now  sent  to  him  forbade  either  of  these  suppositions. 
Who  that  he  knew  could  afford  so  costly  a  jest,  or  so  extrava- 
gant a  tribute?  He  was  perplexed,  and  with  his  perplexity  was 
mixed  a  kind  of  fear.  Plain,  earnest,  unromantic  in  the  common 
acceptation  of  the  word,  the  mystery  of  this  intermeddling  with 
his  fate,  this  arrogation  of  the  license  to  spy,  the  right  to  counsel, 
and  the  privilege  to  bestow,  gave  him  the  uneasiness  the  bravest 
men  may  feel  at  noises  in  the  dark.  That  day  he  could  apply  no 
more;  he  could  not  settle  back  to  his  Law-Reports.  He  took 
two  or  three  unquiet  turns  up  and  down  his  smoke-dried  cell, 
then  locked  up  the  letter  and  enclosure,  seized  his  hat,  and 
strode,  with  his  usual  lusty,  swinging  strides,  into  the  open  air. 


2l8  LUCRETIA. 

But  still  the  letter  haunted  him.  "And  if,"  he  said,  almost 
audibly;  "If  I  were  the  heir  to  some  higher  station,  why  then 
I  might  have  a  heart  like  idle  men;  and  Helen — beloved 
Helen!" — he  paused,  sighed,  shook  his  rough  head,  shaggy 
with  neglected  curls,  and  added:  "As  if  even  then  I  could 
steal  myself  into  a  girl's  good  graces!  Man's  esteem  I  may 
command,  though  poor — woman's  love  could  I  win,  though 
rich!  Pooh!  pooh!  every  wood  does  not  make  a  Mercury;  and 
faith,  the  wood  I  am  made  of, will  scarcely  cut  up  into  a  lover." 

Nevertheless,  though  thus  soliloquizing,  Ardworth  mechan- 
ically bent  his  way  towards  Brompton,  and  halted,  half 
ashamed  of  himself,  at  the  house  where  Helen  lodged  with  her 
aunt.  It  was  a  building  that  stood  apart  from  all  the  cottages 
and  villas  of  that  charming  suburb,  half-way  down  a  nar- 
row lane,  and  enclosed  by  high  melancholy  walls,  deep  set  in 
which  a  small  door,  with  the  paint  blistered  and  weather- 
stained,  gave  unfrequented  entrance  to  the  demesne.  A 
woman  servant  of  middle  age,  and  starched,  puritanical  ap- 
pearance, answered  the  loud  ring  of  the  bell,  and  Ardworth 
seemed  a  privileged  visitor,  for  she  asked  him  no  question,  as 
with  a  slight  nod,  and  a  smileless,  stupid  expression  in  a  face 
otherwise  comely,  she  led  the  way  across  a  paved  path,  much 
weed-grown,  to  the  house.  That  house  itself  had  somewhat  of 
a  stern  and  sad  exterior.  It  was  not  ancient,  yet  it  looked  old 
from  shabbiness  and  neglect.  The  vine,  loosened  from  the 
rusty  nails,  trailed  rankly  against  the  wall,  and  fell  in  crawling 
branches  over  the  ground.  The  house  had  once  been  white- 
washed, but  the  color,  worn  off  in  great  patches,  distained  with 
damp,  struggled  here  and  there  with  the  dingy  chipped  bricks 
beneath.  There  was  no  peculiar  want  of  what  is  called  "ten- 
antable  repair"  ;  the  windows  were  whole,  and  doubtless  the 
roof  sheltered  from  the  rain.  But  the  woodwork  that  encased 
the  panes  was  decayed,  and  house-leek  covered  the  tiles.  Al- 
together there  was  that  forlorn  and  cheerless  aspect  about  the 
place  which  chills  the  visitor,  he  defines  not  why.  And  Ard- 
worth steadied  his  usual  careless  step,  and  crept,  as  if  timidly, 
up  the  creaking  stairs. 

On  entering  the  drawing-room,  it  seemed  at  first  deserted ; 
but  the  eye  searching  round,  perceived  something  stir  in  the 
recess  of  a  huge  chair,  set  by  the  fireless  hearth.  And  from 
amidst  a  mass  of  coverings  a  pale  face  emerged,  and  a  thin 
hand  waved  its  welcome  to  the  visitor. 

Ardworth  approached,  pressed  the  hand,  and  drew  a  seat 
near  to  the  sufferer's. 


LUCRETIA.  219 

"You  are  better,  I  hope?"  he  said  cordially;  and  yet  in  a 
tone  of  more  respect  than  was  often  perceptible  in  his  deep, 
blunt  voice. 

"I  am  always  the  same,"  was  the  quiet  answer;  "Come 
nearer  still.  Your  visits  cheer  me." 

And  as  these  last  words  were  said,  Madame  Dalibard  raised 
herself  from  her  recumbent  posture,  and  gazed  long  upon 
Ardworth's  face  of  power  and  front  of  thought.  "You  over- 
fatigue  yourself,  my  poor  kinsman,"  she  said,  with  a  certain 
tenderness:  "You  look  already  too  old  for  your  young 
years. ' ' 

"That's  no  disadvantage  at  the  bar." 

"Is  the  bar  your  means,  or  your  end?" 

"My  dear  Madame  Dalibard,  it  is  my  profession." 

"No,  your  profession  is  to  rise.  John  Ardworth,"  and  the 
low  voice  swelled  in  its  volume,  "you  are  bold,  able,  and  aspir- 
ing ;  for  this,  I  love  you — love  you  almost — almost  as  a  mother. 
Your  fate,"  she  continued  hurriedly,  "interests  me;  your 
energies  inspire  me  with  admiration.  Often  I  sit  here  for 
hours,  musing  over  your  destiny  to  be — so  that,  at  times,  I  may 
almost  say  that  in  your  life  I  live." 

Ardworth  looked  embarrassed,  and  with  an  awkward  attempt 
at  compliment,  he  began  hesitatingly:  "I  should  think  too 
highly  of  myself,  if  I  could  really  believe  that  you — " 

"Tell  me,"  interrupted  Madame  Dalibard:  ''we  have  had 
many  conversations  upon  grave  and  subtle  matters;  we  have 
disputed  on  the  secret  mysteries  of  the  human  mind ;  we  have 
compared  our  several  experiences  of  outward  life  and  the 
mechanism  of  the  social  world, — tell  me  then,  and  frankly,  what 
do  you  think  of  me?  Do  you  regard  me  merely  as  your  sex  is 
apt  to  regard  the  woman  who  aspires  to  equal  men — a  thing  of 
borrowed  phrases  and  unsound  ideas,  feeble  to  guide  and  un- 
skilled to  teach?  or  do  you  recognize  in  this  miserable  body 
a  mind  of  force  not  unworthy  yours,  ruled  by  an  experience 
larger  than  your  own?" 

"I  think  of  you,"  answered  Ardworth  frankly,  "as  the  most 
remarkable  woman  I  have  ever  met.  Yet,  do  not  be  angry,  I 
do  not  like  to  yield  to  the  influence  which  you  gain  over  me 
when  we  meet.  It  disturbs  my  convictions,  it  disquiets  my 
reason;  I  do  not  settle  back  to  my  life  as  easily  after  your  breath 
has  passed  over  it." 

"And  yet,"  said  Lucretia,  with  a  solemn  sadness  in  her 
voice,  "that  influence  is  but  the  natural  power  which  cold 
maturity  exercises  on  ardent  youth.  It  is  my  mournful  advan- 


220  LUCRETIA. 

tage  over  you  that  disquiets  your  happy  calm.  It  is  my  expe- 
rience that  unsettles  the  fallacies  which  you  name  'convic- 
tions.' Let  this  pass.  I  asked  your  opinion  of  me,  because  I 
wished  to  place  at  your  service  all  that  knowledge  of  life  which 
I  possess.  In  proportion  as  you  esteem  me,  you  will  accept  or 
reject  my  counsels." 

"I  have  benefited  by  them  already.  It  is  the  tone  that  you 
advised  me  to  assume  that  gave  me  an  importance  I  had  not 
before  with  that  old  formalist  whose  paper  I  serve,  and  whose 
prejudices  I  shock;  it  is  to  your  criticisms  that  I  owe  the  more 
practical  turn  of  my  writings,  and  the  greater  hold  they  have 
taken  on  the  public." 

"Trifles  indeed,  these,"  said  Madame  Dalibard,  with  a  half- 
smile.  "Let  them  at  least  induce  you  to  listen  to  me;  if  I  pro- 
pose to  make  your  path  more  pleasant,  yet  your  ascent  more 
rapid." 

Ardworth  knit  his  brows,  and  his  countenance  assumed  an 
expression  of  doubt  and  curiosity.  However,  he  only  replied, 
with  a  blunt  laugh : 

"You  must  be  wise,  indeed,  if  you  have  discovered  a  royal 
road  to  distinction.' 

'Ah,  who  can  tell  how  hard  it  is  to  climb 
The  steep  where  Fame's  proud  temple  shines  afar  ! ' 

A  more  sensible  exclamation  than  poets  usually  preface  with 
their  whining  'Ah's'  and  'Oh's'!" 

"What  we  are  is  nothing,"  pursued  Madame  Dalibard; 
"what  we  seem  is  much." 

Ardworth  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  and  shook  his 
head.  The  wise  woman  continued,  unheeding  his  dissent  from 
her  premises: 

"Everything you  are  taught  to  value  has  a  likeness,  and  it  is 
that  likeness  which  the  world  values.  Take  a  man  out  of  the 
streets,  poor  and  ragged,  what  will  the  world  do  with  him? 
Send  him  to  the  workhouse,  if  not  to  the  jail.  Ask  a  great 
painter  to  take  that  man's  portrait,  rags,  squalor,  and  all;  and 
kings  will  bid  for  the  picture.  You  would  thrust  the  man  from 
your  doors,  you  would  place  the  portrait  in  your  palaces.  It 
is  the  same  with  qualities,  the  portrait  is  worth  more  than  the 
truth.  What  is  virtue  without  character?  But  a  man  without 
virtue  may  thrive  on  a  character!  What  is  genius  without 
success?  But  how  often  you  bow  to  success  without  genius ! 
John  Ardworth,  possess  yourself  of  the  portraits,  win  the  char- 
acter, seize  the  success, ' ' 


LUCRETIA.  221 

"Madame,"  exclaimed  Ardworth  rudely,  "this  is  horrible!" 

"Horrible,  it  may  be,"  said  Madame  Dalibard  gently,  and 
feeling,  perhaps,  that  she  had  gone  too  far;  "but  it  is  the 
world's  judgment.  Seem,  then,  as  well  as  be.  You  have  vir- 
tue, as  I  believe.  Well,  wrap  yourself  in  it — in  your  closet. 
Go  into  the  world,  and  earn  character.  If  you  have  genius, 
let  it  comfort  you.  Rush  into  the  crowd,  and  get  success." 

"Stop!"  cried  Ardworth;  "I  recognize  you.  How  could  I 
be  so  blind?  It  is  you  who  have  written  to  me,  and  in  the 
same  strain:  you  have  robbed  yourself — you,  poor  sufferer,  to 
throw  extravagance  into  these  strong  hands.  And  why?  What 
am  I  to  you  ? ' ' 

An  expression  of  actual  fondness  softened  Lucretia's  face, 
as  she  looked  up  at  him,  and  replied:  "I  will  tell  you  here- 
after what  you  are  to  me.  First,  I  confess  that  it  is  I  whose 
letters  have  perplexed,  perhaps  offended  you.  The  sum  that  I 
sent  I  do  not  miss.  I  have  more — will  ever  have  more  at  your 
command — never  fear.  Yes,  I  wish  you  to  go  into  the  world, 
not  as  a  dependent,  but  as  an  equal  to  the  world's  favorites.  I 
wish  you  to  know  more  of  men  than  mere  law-books  teach  you. 
I  wish  you  to  be  in  men's  mouths,  create  a  circle  that  shall  talk 
of  young  Ardworth — that  talk  would  travel  to  those  who  can 
advance  your  career.  The  very  possession  of  money  in  certain 
stages  of  life  gives  assurance  to  the  manner,  gives  attraction  to 
the  address." 

"But,"said  Ardworth,  "all  this  is  very  well  for  some  favor- 
ite of  birth  and  fortune ;  but  for  me — yet  speak  and  plainly ; 
you  throw  out  hints  that  I  am  what  I  know  not;  but  something 
less  dependent  on  his  nerves  and  his  brain,  than  is  plain  John 
Ardworth.  What  is  it  you  mean?" 

Madame  Dalibard  bent  her  face  over  her  breast,  And  rock- 
ing herself  in  her  chair,  seemed  to  muse  for  some  moments 
before  she  answered : 

"When  I  first  came  to  England,  some  months  ago,  I  desired 
naturally  to  learn  all  the  particulars  of  my  family  and  kindred, 
from  which  my  long  residence  abroad  had  estranged  me. 
John  Walter  Ardworth  was  related  to  my  half-sister,  to  me  he 
was  but  a  mere  connection.  However,  I  knew  something  of 
his  history,  yet  I  did  not  know  that  he  had  a  son.  Shortly  be- 
fore I  came  to  England,  I  learned  that  one  who  passed  for  his 
son  had  been  brought  up  by  Mr.  Fielden,  and  from  Mr.  Fielden 
I  have  since  learned  all  the  grounds  for  that  belief,  from  which 
you  take  the  name  of  Ardworth." 

Lucretia  paused  a  moment ;  and  after  a  glance  at  the  impa- 


222  LUCRETIA. 

tient,  wondering,  and  eager  countenance  that  bent  intent  upon 
her,  she  resumed : 

"Your  reputed  father  was,  you  are  doubtless  aware,  of  reck- 
less and  extravagant  habits.  He  had  been  put  into  the  army 
by  my  uncle,  and  he  entered  that  profession  with  the  careless 
buoyancy  of  his  sanguine  nature.  I  remember  those  days — 
that  day!  Well,  to  return — where  was  I?  Walter  Ardworth 
had  the  folly  to  entertain  strong  notions  of  politics.  He 
dreamt  of  being  a  soldier,  and  yet  persuaded  himself  to  be  a 
republican.  His  notions,  so  hateful  in  his  profession,  got 
wind;  he  disguised  nothing,  he  neglected  the  portraits  of 
things — appearances.  He  excited  the  rancor  of  his  command- 
ing officer — for  politics  then,  more  even  than  now,  were  im- 
placable ministrants  to  hate — occasion  presented  itself :  during 
the  short  Peace  of  Amiens  he  had  been  recalled.  He  had  to 
head  a  detachment  of  soldiers  against  some  mob,  in  Ireland,  I 
believe ;  he  did  not  fire  on  the  mob  according  to  orders, — so,  at. 
least,  it  was  said;  John  Walter  Ardworth  was  tried  by  a  court- 
martial,  and  broke!  But  you  know  all  this,  perhaps!" 

"My  poor  father!  Only  in  part:  I  knew  that  he  had  been 
dismissed  the  army — I  believe  unjustly.  He  was  a  soldier, 
and  yet  he  dared  to  think  for  himself,  and  be  humane!" 

"But  my  uncle  had  left  him  a  legacy;  it  brought  no  bless- 
ing— none  of  that  old  man's  gold  did.  Where  are  they  all 
now?  Dalibard,  Susan,  and  her  fair-faced  husband,  W'here? 
Vernon  is  in  his  grave ;  but  one  son  of  many  left !  Gabriel 
Varney  lives,  it  is  true!  And  I!  But  that  gold — yea,  in  our 
hands,  there  was  a  curse  on  it!  Walter  Ardworth  had  his  leg- 
acy; his  nature  was  gay:  if  disgraced  in  his  profession,  he 
found  men  to  pity  and  praise  him — Fools  of  Party  like  himself. 
He  lived  joyously,  drank  or  gamed,  or  lent  or  borrowed — what 
matters  the  wherefore?  He  was  in  debt;  he  lived  at  last  a 
wretched,  shifting,  fugitive  life, — snatching  bread  where  he 
could,  with  the  bailiffs  at  his  heels — then,  for  a  short  time,  we 
met  again." 

Lucretia's  brow  grew  black  as  night,  as  her  voice  dropped 
at  that  last  sentence  and  it  was  with  a  start  that  she  con- 
tinued. 

"In  the  midst  of  this  hunted  existence  Walter  Ardworth 
appeared,  late  one  night,  at  Mr.  Fielden's  with  an  infant.  He 
seemed,  so  says  Mr.  Fielden,  ill,  worn,  and  haggard.  He 
entered  into  no  explanations  with  respect  to  the  child  that 
accompanied  him,  and  retired  at  once  to  rest.  What  follows, 
Mr.  Fielden,  at  my  request,  has  noted  down.  Read,  and  see 


LUCRETIA.  223 

claim  you  have  to  the  honorable  parentage  so  vaguely 
ascribed  to  you." 

As  she  spoke,  Madame  Dalibard  opened  a  box  on  her  table, 
drew  forth  a  paper  in  Fielden's  writing,  and  placed  it  in 
Ardworth's  hand.  After  some  preliminary  statement  of  the 
writer's  intimacy  with  the  elder  Ardworth,  and  the  appearance 
of  the  latter  at  his  house,  as  related  by  Madame  Dalibard, 
etc.,  the  document  went  on  thus: 

"The  next  day,  when  my  poor  guest  was  still  in  bed,  my 
servant  Hannah  came  to  advise  me  that  two  persons  were  with- 
out, waiting  to  see  me.  As  is  my  wont,  I  bade  them  be  shown 
in.  On  their  entrance  (two  rough  farmer-looking  men  they 
were,  whom  I  thought  might  be  coming  to  hire  my  little  pas- 
ture field),  I  prayed  them  to  speak  low,  as  a  sick  gentleman 
was  just  overhead.  Whereupon,  and  without  saying  a  word 
further,  the  two  strangers  made  a  rush  from  the  room,  leaving 
me  dumb  with  amazement ;  in  a  few  moments,  I  heard  voices 
and  a  scuffle  above.  I  recovered  myself,  and  thinking  robbers 
had  entered  my  peaceful  house,  I  called  out  lustily,  when  Han- 
nah came  in,  and  we  both,  taking  courage,  went  upstairs,  and 
found  that  poor  Walter  was  in  the  hands  of  these  supposed 
robbers,  who  in  truth  were  but  bailiffs.  They  would  not  trust 
him  out  of  their  sight  for  a  moment.  However,  he  took  it 
more  pleasantly  than  I  could  have  supposed  possible ;  prayed 
me  in  a  whisper  to  take  care  of  the  child,  and  I  should  soon 
hear  from  him  again.  In  less  than  an  hour,  he  was  gone. 
Two  days  afterwards,  I  received  from  him  a  hurried  letcer, 
without  address,  of  which  this  is  the  copy: 

"  'DEAR  FRIEND: 

"I  slipt  from  the  bailiffs,  and  here  I  am  in  a  safe  little  tavern 
in  sight  of  the  sea!  Mother  Country  is  a  very  bad  parent  to 
me !  Mother  Brownrigg  herself  could  scarcely  be  worse.  I 
shall  work  out  my  passage  to  some  foreign  land,  and  if  I  can 
recover  my  health  (sea-air  is  bracing!)  I  don't  despair  of  get- 
ting my  bread  honestly,  somehow.  If  ever  I  can  pay  my  debts 
I  may  return.  But,  meanwhile,  my  good  old  tutor,  what  will 
you  think  of  me?  You  to  whom  my  sole  return  for  so  much 
pains  taken  in  vain,  is  another  mouth  to  feed!  And  no  money 
to  pay  for  the  board!  Yet  you'll  not  grudge  the  child  a  place 
at  your  table,  will  you?  No,  nor  kind,  saving  Mrs.  Fielden 
either — God  bless  her  tender,  economical  soul!  You  know 
quite  enough  of  me  to  be  sure  that  I  shall  very  soon  either  free 
you  of  the  boy,  or  send  you  something  to  prevent  its  being  an 


224  LUCRETIA. 

incumbrance.  I  would  say,  love  and  pity  the  child  for  my  sake. 
But  I  own  I  feel —  by  Jove,  I  must  be  off — I  hear  the  first 
signal  from  the  vessel,  that — 

"  'Yours  in  haste,  J.  W.  A.'  " 

Young  Ardworth  stopped  from  the  lecture,  and  sighed  heavily. 
There  seemed  to  him,  in  this  letter,  worse  than  a  mock  gayety — 
a  certain  levity  and  recklessness — which  jarred  on  his  own 
high  principles.  And  the  want  of  affection  for  the  child  thus 
abandoned  was  evident — not  one  fond  word.  He  resumed 
the  statement  with  a  gloomy  and  disheartened  attention. 

"This  was  all  I  heard  from  poor  erring  Walter  for  more 
than  three  years,  but  I  knew,  in  spite  of  his  follies,  that  his 
heart  was  sound  at  bottom  (the  son's  eye  brightened  here,  and 
he  kissed  the  paper)  and  the  child  was  no  burthen  to  us — we 
loved  it,  not  only  for  Ardworth's  sake,  but  for  his  own,  and  for 
charity's,  and  Christ's.  Ardworth's  second  letter  was  as 
follows: 

'  ' En  iterum  Crispinus  ! — I  am  still  alive,  and  getting  on  in 
the  world — ay,  and  honestly  too — I  am  no  longer  spending 
heedlessly;  I  am  saving  for  my  debts,  and  I  shall  live,  I  trust, 
to  pay  off  every  farthing.  For  my  debt  to  you — I  send  an 
order  not  signed  in  my  name,  but  equally  valid,  on  Messrs. 
Drummond,  for  -£250.  Repay  yourself  what  the  boy  has  cost. 
Let  him  be  educated  to  get  his  own  living:  if  clever,  as  a 
scholar  or  a  lawyer ;  if  dull,  as  a  tradesman.  Whatever  I  may 
gain,  he  will  have  his  own  \vay  to  make.  I  ought  to  tell  you 
the  story  connected  with  his  birth,  but  it  is  one  of  pain  and 
shame ;  and  on  reflection,  I  feel  that  I  have  no  right  to  injure 
him  by  affixing  to  his  early  birth  an  opprobrium  of  which  he 
himself  is  guiltless.  If  ever  I  return  to  England,  you  shall 
know  all,  and  by  your  counsels  I  will  abide.  Love  to  all  your 
happy  family — Your  grateful  Friend  and  Pupil.' 

"From  this  letter  I  began  to  suspect  that  the  poor  boy  was 
probably  not  born  in  wedlock,  and  that  Ardworth's  silence  arose 
from  his  compunction.  I  conceived  it  best  never  to  mention 
this  suspicion  to  John  himself  as  he  grew  up.  Why  should  I 
afflict  him  by  a  doubt  from  which  his  father  shrunk,  and  which 
might  only  exist  in  my  own  inexperienced  and  uncharitable  in- 
terpretation of  some  vague  words?  When  John  was  fourteen, 
I  received  from  Messrs.  Drummond  a  further  sum  of  £500,  but 
without  any  line  from  Ardworth,  and  only  to  the  effect  that 
Messrs.  Drummond  were  directed  by  a  correspondent  in  Cal- 


LUCRETIA.  $25 

cutta  to  pay  me  the  said  sum  on  behalf  of  expenses  incurred 
for  the  maintenance  of  the  child  left  to  my  charge  by  John 
Walter  Ardworth.  My  young  pupil  had  been  two  years  at  the 
university,  when  I  received  the  letter  of  which  this  is  a  copy: 

" 'How  are  you?  Still  well — still  happy?  Letmehopeso! 
I  have  not  written  to  you,  dear  old  friend,  but  I  have  not  been 
forgetful  of  you ;  I  have  inquired  of  you  through  my  corre- 
spondents, and  have  learned,  from  time  to  time,  such  accounts 
as  satisfied  my  grateful  affection  for  you.  I  find  that  you  have 
given  the  boy  my  name?  Well,  let  him  bear  it;  it  is  nothing  to 
boast  of,  such  as  it  became  in  my  person ;  but  mind,  I  do  not 
therefore,  acknowledge  him  as  my  son.  I  wish  him  to  think, 
himself  without  parents,  without  other  aid  in  the  career  of  life 
than  his  own  industry  and  talent,  if  talent  he  has.  Let  him  go 
through  the  healthful  probation  of  toil ;  let  him  search  for  and 
find  independence.  Till  he  is  of  age,  £150  per  annum  will  be 
paid  quarterly  to  your  account  for  him  at  Messrs.  Drummonds'. 
If  then,  to  set  him  up  in  any  business  or  profession,  a  sum  of 
money  be  necessary,  name  the  amount  by  a  line,  signed  A.  B., 
Calcutta,  to  the  care  of  Messrs.  Drummond,  and  it  will  reach, 
and  find  me  disposed  to  follow  your  instructions.  But  after 
that  time  all  further  supply  from  me  will  cease.  Do  not  sup- 
pose, because  I  send  this  from  India,  that  I  am  laden  with 
rupees;  all  I  can  hope  to  attain  is  a  competence.  That  boy  is 
not  the  only  one  who  has  claims  to  share  it.  Even,  therefore, 
if  I  had  the  wish  to  rear  him  to  the  extravagant  habits  that 
ruined  myself,  I  have  not  the  power.  Yes!  Let  him  lean  on 
his  own  strength.  In  the  letter  you  send  me,  write  fully  of 
your  family,  your  sons,  and  write  as  to  a  man  who  can  perhaps 
help  them  in  the  world,  and  will  be  too  happy  thus  in  some 
slight  degree  to  repay  all  he  owes  you.  You  would  smile  ap- 
provingly if  you  saw  me  now — a  steady,  money-getting  man, 
but  still  yours  as  ever. 

"  'P.  S. — Do  not  let  the  boy  write  to  me,  nor  give  him  this 
clue  to  my  address.' 

"On  the  receipt  of  this  letter,  I  wrote  fully  to  Ardworth 
about  the  excellent  promise  and  conduct  of  his  poor  neglected 
son.  I  told  him  truly  he  was  a  son  any  father  might  be  proud 
of,  and  rebuked,  even  to  harshness,  Walter's  unseemly  tone 
respecting  him.  One's  child,  is  one's  child,  however  the  father 
may  have  wronged  the  mother.  To  this  letter  I  never  received 
any  answer.  When  John  was  of  age,  and  had  made  himself 
independent  of  want,  by  obtaining  a  college  fellowship,  I  spoke 


226  LUCRETIA. 

to  him  about  his  prospects.  I  told  him  that  his  father,  though 
residing  abroad  and  for  some  reasons  keeping  himself  concealed, 
had  munificently  paid  hitherto  for  his  maintenance,  and  would 
lay  down  what  might  be  necessary  to  start  him  in  business,  or 
perhaps  place  him  in  the  army;  but  that  his  father  might  be  better 
pleased  if  he  could  show  a  love  of  independence,  and  henceforth 
maintain  himself.  I  knew  the  boy  I  spoke  to:  John  thought 
as  I  did;  and  I  never  applied  for  another  donation  to  the  elder 
Ardworth.  The  allowance  ceased:  John  since  then  has  main- 
tained himself.  I  have  heard  no  more  from  his  father,  though 
I  have  written  often  to  the  address  he  gave  me.  I  begin  to  fear 
that  he  is  dead.  I  once  went  up  to  town  and  saw  one  of  the 
•heads  of  Messrs.  Drummonds'  firm — a  very  polite  gentleman, 
but  he  could  give  me  no  information,  except  that  he  obeyed  in- 
structions from  a  correspondent  at  Calcutta — one  Mr.  Macfar- 
ren.  Whereon  I  wrote  to  Mr.  Macfarren,  and  asked  him,  as  I 
thought  very  pressingly,  to  tell  me  all  he  knew  of  poor  Ard- 
worth the  elder.  He  answered  shortly,  that  he  knew  of  no  such 
person  at  all,  and  that  A.B.  was  a  French  merchant,  settled  in 
Calcutta,  who  had  been  dead  for  above  two  years.  I  now  gave 
up  all  hopes  of  any  further  intelligence,  and  was  more  con- 
vinced than  ever  that  I  had  acted  rightly  in  withholding  from 
poor  John  my  correspondence  with  his  father.  The  lad  had 
been  curious  and  inquisitive  naturally,  but  when  I  told  him 
that  I  thought  it  my  duty  to  his  father  to  be  so  reserved  he  fore- 
bore  to  press  me.  I  have  only  to  add,  first,  that  by  all  the  in- 
quiries I  could  make  of  the  surviving  members  of  Walter 
Ardworth's  family,  it  seemed  their  full  belief  that  he  had 
never  been  married,  and  therefore  I  fear  we  must  conclude 
that  he  had  no  legitimate  children,  which  may  account  for, 
though  it  cannat  excuse,  his  neglect;  and  secondly,  with 
respect  to  the  sums  received  on  dear  John's  account — I  put 
them  all  by,  capital  and  interest,  deducting  only  the  expense 
of  his  first  year  at  Cambridge  (the  which  I  could  not  defray, 
without  injuring  my  own  children),  and  it  all  stands  in  his  name 
at  Messrs.  Drummonds',  vested  in  the  Three  Per  Cents. 
That  I  have  not  told  him  of  this  was  by  my  poor  dear  wife's 
advice ;  for  she  said,  very  sensibly,  and  she  was  a  shrewd  wom- 
an on  money  matters:  'If  he  knows  he  has  such  a  large  sum 
all  in  the  lump,  who  knows  but  he  may  grow  idle  and  extrav- 
agant, and  spend  it  at  once,  like  his  father  before  him ;  whereas, 
some  time  or  other,  he  will  want  to  marry,  or  need  money  for 
some  particular  purpose, — then  what  a  blessing  it  will  be!' 
"However,  my  dear  madam,  as  you  know  the  world  better 


LUCRETtA.  227 

than  I  do,  you  can  now  do  as  you  please,  both  as  to  communicat' 
ing  to  John  all  the  information  herein  contained  as  to  his  pa^ 
rentage,  and  as  to  apprising  him  of  the  large  sum  of  which  he 
is  lawfully  possessed. — MATTHEW  FIELDEN. 

"P.  S. — In  justice  to  poor  John  Ardworth,  and  to  show  that 
whatever  whim  he  may  have  conceived  about  his  own  child,  he 
had  still  a  heart  kind  enough  to  remember  mine,  though  Heaven 
knows  I  said  nothing  about  them  in  my  letters,  my  eldest  boy  re- 
ceived an  offer  of  an  excellent  place  in  a  West  India  merchant's 
house,  and  has  got  on  to  be  chief  clerk,  and  my  second  son  was 
presented  to  a  living  of  one  hundred  and  seventeen  pounds  a 
year,  by  a  gentleman  he  never  heard  of.  Though  I  never 
traced  these  good  acts  to  Ardworth,  from  whom  else  could  they 
come?' 

Ardworth  put  down  the  paper  without  a  word ;  and  Lucretia, 
who  had  watched  him  while  he  read,  was  struck  with  the  self- 
control  he  evinced  when  he  came  to  the  end  of  the  disclosure. 
She  laid  her  hand  on  his,  and  said: 

"Courage!     You  have  lost  nothing!" 

"Nothing!"  said  Ardworth,  with  a  bitter  smile.  "A  father's 
love  and  a  father's  name — nothing!" 

"But,"  exclaimed  Lucretia,  "is  this  man  your  father? 
Does  a  father's  heart  beat  in  one  line  of  those  hard  sentences. 
No,  no ;  it  seems  to  me  probable — it  seems  to  me  almost  cer- 
tain, that  you  are — "she  stopped,  and  continued  with  a  calmer 
accent, — "near  to  my  own  blood.  I  am  now  in  England,  in 
London,  to  prosecute  the  inquiry  built  upon  that  hope.  If  so — 
if  so — you  shall — ' '  Madame  Ualibard  again  stopped  abruptly, 
and  there  was  something  terrible  in  the  very  exultation  of  her 
countenance.  She  drew  a  long  breath,  and  resumed,  with  an 
evident  effort  at  self-command:  "If  so,  I  have  a  right  to  the 
interest  I  feel  for  you.  Suffer  me  yet  to  be  silent  as  to  the 
grounds  of  my  belief,  and — and — love  me  a  little  in  the  mean 
while!" 

Her  voice  trembled,  as  if  with  rushing  tears,  at  these  last 
words,  and  there  was  almost  an  agony  in  the  tone  in  which  they 
were  said,  and  in  the  gesture  of  the  clasped  hands  she  held  out 
to  him. 

Much  moved  (amidst  all  his  mingled  emotions  at  the  tale 
thus  made  known  to  him)  by  the  manner  and  voice  of  the  nar- 
rator, Ardworth  bent  down  and  kissed  the  extended  hands. 
Then  he  rose  abruptly,  walked  to  and  fro  the  room,  muttering 
to  himself,  paused  opposite  the  window,  threw  it  open,  as  for 


228  T.UCRETIA. 

air,  and,  indeed,  fairly  gasped  for  breath.  When  he  turned 
round,  however,  his  face  was  composed,  and  folding  his  arms  on 
his  large  breast  with  a  sudden  action,  he  said  aloud,  and  yet 
rather  to  himself  than  to  his  listener: 

"What  matter,  after  all,  by  what  name  men  call  our  fathers! 
We  ourselves  make  our  own  fate !  Bastard  or  noble,  not  a  jot 
care  I.  Give  me  ancestors,  I  will  not  disgrace  them ;  raze 
from  my  lot  even  the  very  name  of  father,  and  my  sons  shall 
have  an  ancestor  in  me!" 

As  he  thus  spoke,  there  was  a  rough  grandeur  in  his  hard 
face  and  the  strong  ease  of  his  powerful  form.  And  while  thus 
standing  and  thus  looking,  the  door  opened,  and  Varney  walked 
in  abruptly. 

These  two  men  had  met  occasionally  at  Madame  Dalibard's, 
but  no  intimacy  had  been  established  between  them.  Varney 
was  formal  and  distant  to  Ardworth,  and  Ardworth  felt  a  re- 
pugnance to  Varney.  With  the  instinct  of  sound,  sterling, 
weighty  natures,  he  detected  at  once,  and  disliked  heartily, 
that  something  of  gaudy,  false,  exaggerated,  and  hollow,  which 
pervaded  Gabriel  Varney 's  talk  and  manner,  even  the  trick  of 
his  walk  and  the  cut  of  his  dress.  And  Ardworth  wanted  that 
boyish  and  beautiful  luxuriance  of  character  which  belonged 
to  Percival  St.  John,  easy  to  please  and  to  be  pleased,  and  ex- 
panding into  the  warmth  of  admiration  for  all  talent  and  all 
distinction.  For  art,  if  not  the  highest,  Ardworth  cared  not  a 
straw :  it  was  nothing  to  him  that  Vainey  painted  and  composed, 
and  ran  showily  through  the  jargon  of  literary  babble,  or  toyed 
with  the  puzzles  of  unsatisfying  metaphysics.  He  saw  but  a 
charlatan,  and  he  had  not  yet  learned  from  experience  what 
strength  and  what  danger  lie  hid  in  the  boa  parading  its  colors 
in  the  sun,  and  shifting,  in  the  sensual  sportiveness  of  its  being, 
from  bough  to  bough. 

Varney  halted  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  as  his  eye  rested 
first  on  Ardworth,  and  then  glanced  towards  Madame  Dalibard. 
But  Ardworth,  jarred  from  his  revery  or  resolves  by  the  sound 
of  a  voice  discordant  to  his  ear  at  all  times,  especially  in  the 
mood  which  then  possessed  him,  scarcely  returned  Varney's 
salutation,  buttoned  his  coat  over  his  chest,  seized  his  hat,  and 
upsetting  two  chairs,  and  very  considerably  disturbing  the  grav- 
ity of  a  round  table,  forced  his  way  to  Madame  Dalibard,  pressed 
her  hand,  and  said  in  a  whisper:  "I  shall  see  you  again  soon," 
and  vanished. 

Varney,  smoothing  his  hair  with  fingers  that  shone  with  rings, 
slid  into  the  seat  next  Madame  Dalibard,  which  Ardworth  had 


LUCRETIA.  229 

lately  occupied,  and  said:   "If  I  were  a Clytemnestra,  I  should 
dread  an  Orestes  in  such  a  son!" 

Madame  Dalibard  shot  towards  the  speaker  one  of  the  side- 
long, suspicious  glances  which  of  old  had  characterized  Lucre- 
tia,  and  said : 

"Clytemnestra  was  happy!  The  Furies  slept  to  her  crime, 
and  haunted  but  the  avenger. " 

"Hist!"  said  Varney. 

The  door  opened,  and  Ardworth  reappeared. 

"I  quite  forgot,  what  I  half  came  to  know.  How  is  Helen? 
Did  she  return  home  safe?" 

"Safe — yes!" 

"Dear  girl,  I  am  glad  to  hear  it!  Where  is  she?  Not  gone 
to  those  Mivers's  again!  I  am  no  aristocrat,  but  why  should 
one  couple  together  refinement  and  vulgarity?" 

"Mr.  Ardworth,"  said  Madame  Dalibard,  with  haughty  cold- 
ness, "my  niece  is  under  my  care,  and  you  will  permit  me  to 
judge  for  myself  how  to  discharge  the  trust.  Mr.  Mivers  is 
her  own  relation — a  nearer  one  than  you  are." 

Not  at  all  abashed  by  the  rebuke,  Ardworth  said  carelessly : 
"Well,  I  shall  talk  to  you  again  on  that  subject.  Meanwhile, 
pray  give  my  love  to  her — Helen,  I  mean." 

Madame  Dalibard  half  rose  in  her  chair,  then  sunk  back 
again,  motioning  with  her  hand  to  Ardworth  to  approach. 
Varney  rose  and  walked  to  the  window,  as  if  sensible  that  some- 
thing was  about  to  be  said  not  meant  for  his  ear. 

When  Ardworth  was  close  to  her  chair,  Madame  Dalibard 
grasped  his  hand  with  a  vigor  that  surprised  him,  and  drawing 
him  nearer  still,  whispered  as  he  bent  down: 

"I  will  give  Helen  your  love,  if  it  is  a  cousin's,  or,  if  you  will, 
a  brother's  love.  Do  you  intend — do  you  feel — another,  a 
warmer  love?  Speak,  sir!"  and  drawing  suddenly  back,  she 
gazed  on  his  face,  with  a  stern  and  menacing  expression,  her 
teeth  set,  and  the  lips  firmly  pressed  together. 

Ardworth,  though  a  little  startled,  and  half-angry,  answered 
with  the  low,  ironical  laugh,  not  uncommon  to  him:  "Pish! 
you  ladies  are  apt  to  think  us  men  much  greater  fools  than  we 
are.  A  briefless  lawyer  is  not  very  inflammable  tinder.  Yes,  a 
cousin's  love — quite  enough.  Poor  little  Helen!  Time  enough 
to  put  other  notions  into  her  hend;  and  then — she  will  have  a 
sweetheart,  gay  and  handsome  like  herself!" 

"Ay,"  said  Madame  Dalibard,  with  a  slight  smile,  "ay,  I  am 
satisfied.  Come  soon." 

Ardworth  nodded,  and  hurried  down  the  stairs.     As  he  gained 


230  LUCRETIA. 

the  door,  he  caught  sight  of  Helen  at  a  distance,  bending  over 
a  flower-bed  in  the  neglected  garden.  He  paused,  irresolute, 
a  moment.  "No,"  he  muttered  to  himself ;  "no,  I  am  com- 
pany only  for  myself!  A  long  walk  into  the  fields,  and  then — 
away  with  these  mists  round  the  Past  and  Future ;  the  Present 
at  least  is  mine!" 

CHAPTER  V. 

THE  WEAVERS  AND  THE  WOOF. 

"AND  what,"  said  Varney,  "what,  while  we  are  pursuing  a 
fancied  clue,  and  seeking  to  provide  first  a  name,  and  then  a 
fortune  for  this  young  lawyer — what  steps  have  you  really  taken 
to  meet  the  danger  that  menaces  me  :  to  secure,  if  our  inquiries 
fail,  an  independence  for  yourself?  Months  have  elapsed,  and 
you  have  still  shrunk  from  advancing  the  great  scheme  upon 
which  we  built,  when  the  daughter  of  Susan  Mainwaring  was 
admitted  to  your  hearth." 

"Why  recall  me,  in  these  rare  moments  when  I  feel  myself 
human  still — why  recall  me  back  to  the  nethermost  abyss  of 
revenge  and  crime?  Oh!  let  me  be  sure  that  I  have  still  a  son ! 
Even  if  John  Ardworth,  with  his  gifts  and  energies,  be  denied 
to  me! — a  son,  though  in  rags,  I  will  give  him  wealth!  A  son, 
though  ignorant  as  the  merest  boor,  I  will  pour  into  his  brain 
my  dark  wisdom!  A  son — a  son!  My  heart  swells  at  the 
word.  Ah,  you  sneer!  Yes,  my  heart  swells,  but  not  with  the 
mawkish  fondness  of  a  feeble  mother.  In  a  son,  I  shall  live 
again — transmigrate  from  this  tortured  and  horrible  life  of 
mine — drink  back  my  youth.  In  him  I  shall  rise  from  my  fall, 
strong  in  his  power,  great  in  his  grandeur.  It  is  because  I  was 
born  a  woman,  had  woman's  poor  passions  and  infirm  weak- 
ness, that  I  am  what  I  am — I  would  transfer  myself  into  the 
soul  of  man — man  who  has  the  strength  to  act,  and  the  privi- 
lege to  rise.  Into  the  bronze  of  man's  nature  I  would  pour 
the  experience  which  has  broken,  with  its  fierce  elements,  the 
puny  vessel  of  clay.  Yes,  Gabriel,  in  return  for  all  I  have  done 
and  sacrificed  for  you,  I  ask  but  co-operation  in  that  one  hope 
of  my  shattered  and  storm-beat  being.  Bear — forbear — await — 
risk  not  that  hope  by  some  wretched  peddling  crime,  which 
will  bring  on  us  both  detection — some  wanton  revelry  in  guilt, 
which  is  not  worth  the  terror  that  treads  upon  its  heels." 

"You  forget,"  answered  Varney,  with  a  kind  of  submissive 
sullenness,  for  whatever  had  passed  between  these  two  persons 
^n  thejr  secret  and  fearful  intimacy,  there  was  still  a  power  in 


LUCRETIA.  53* 

Lucretia,  surviving  her  fall  amidst  the  fiends,  that  impressed 
Varney  with  the  only  respect  he  felt  for  man  or  woman ;  "You 
forget  strangely  the  nature  of  our  elaborate  and  master  project, 
when  you  speak  of  'peddling  crime,'  or  'wanton  revelry'  in 
guilt !  You  forget,  too,  how  every  hour  that  we  waste  deepens 
the  peril  that  surrounds  me,  and  may  sweep  from  your  side  the 
sole  companion  that  can  aid  you  in  your  objects;  nay,  without 
whom,  they  must  wholly  fail.  Let  me  speak  first  of  that  most 
urgent  danger,  for  your  memory  seems  short  and  troubled,  since 
you  have  learned  only  to  hope  the  recovery  of  your  son.  If 
this  man,  Stubmore,  in  whom  the  trust  created  by  my  uncle's 
will  is  now  vested,  once  comes  to  town — once  begins  to  bustle 
about  his  accursed  projects  of  transferring  the  money  from  the 
Bank  of  England,  I  tell  you  again  and  again  that  my  forgery  on 
the  bank  will  be  detected,  and  that  transportation  will  be  the 
smallest  penalty  inflicted ;  part  of  the  forgery,  as  you  know,  was 
committed  on  your  behalf,  to  find  the  moneys  necessary  for  the 
research  for  your  son — committed  on  the  clear  understanding, 
that  our  project  on  Helen  should  repay  me;  should  enable  me, 
perhaps  undetected,  to  restore  the  sums  illegally  abstracted, 
or  at  the  worst  to  confess  to  Stubmore,  whose  character  I  well 
know,  that  oppressed  by  difficulties  I  had  yielded  to  tempta- 
tion; that  I  had  forged  his  name  (as  I  had  forged  his  father's) 
as  an  authority  to  sell  the  capital  from  the  bank,  and  that  now, 
in  replacing  the  money,  I  repaid  my  error,  and  threw  myself 
on  his  indulgence — on  his  silence.  I  say,  that  I  know  enough 
of  the  man  to  know,  that  I  should  be  thus  cheaply  saved,  or  at 
the  worst  I  should  have  but  to  strengthen  his  compassion  by  a 
bribe  to  his  avarice.  But  if  I  cannot  replace  the  money,  I  am 
lost." 

"Well,  well,"  said  Lucretia,  "the  money  you  shall  have,  let 
me  but  find  my  son,  and — " 

"Grant  me  patience!"  cried  Varney  impetuously;  "but 
what  can  your  son  do,  if  found,  unless  you  endow  him  with  the 
heritage  of  Laughton?  To  do  that,  Helen,  who  comes  next  to 
Percival  St.  John  in  the  course  of  the  entail,  must  cease  to  live! 
Have  I  not  aided — am  I  not  aiding  you  hourly,  in  your  grand 
objects?  This  evening  I  shall  see  a  man  whom  I  have  long 
lost  sight  of,  but  who  has  acquired  in  a  lawyer's  life  the  true 
scent  after  evidence;  if  that  evidence  exist,  it  shall  be  found. 
I  have  just  learned  his  address.  By  to-morrow  he  shall  be  on 
the  track.  I  have  stinted  myself  to  save  from  the  result  of  the 
last  forgery  the  gold  to  whet  his  zeal.  For  the  rest,  as  I  have 
said,  your  design  involves  the  removal  of  two  lives.  Already, 


232  LUCRETIA. 

over  the  one  more  difficult  to  slay,  the  shadow  creeps  and  the 
pall  hangs.  I  have  won,  as  you  wished  and  as  was  necessary, 
young  St.  John's  familiar  acquaintance ;  when  the  hour  comes, 
he  is  in  my  hands." 

Lucretia  smiled  sternly:  "So,"  she  said,  between  her  ground 
teeth,  "the  father  forbade  me  the  house  that  was  my  heritage'! 
I  have  but  to  lift  a  finger  and  breathe  a  word,  and,  desolate  as 
I  am,  I  thrust  from  that  home  the  son !  The  spoiler  left  me  the 
world — I  leave  his  son  the  grave!" 

"But,"  said  Varney,  doggedly  pursuing  his  dreadful  object, 
"why  force  me  to  repeat  that  his  is  not  the  only  life  between 
you  and  your  son's  inheritance?  St.  John  gone,  Helen  still 
remains.  And  what,  if  your  researches  fail,  are  we  to  lose  the 
rich  harvest  which  Helen  will  yield  us — a  harvest  you  reap  with 
the  same  sickle  which  gathers  in  your  revenge?  Do  you  no 
longer  see  in  Helen's  face  the  features  of  her  mother?  Is  the 
perfidy  of  William  Mainwaring  forgotten  or  forgiven?" 

"Gabriel  Varney,"  said  Lucretia,  in  a  hollow  and  tremulous 
voice,  "when  in  that  hour  in  which  my  whole  being  was  re- 
vulsed,  and  I  heard  the  cord  snap  from  the  anchor,  and  saw 
the  demons  of  the  storm  gather  round  my  bark — when,  in  that 
hour,  I  stooped  calmly  down  and  kissed  my  rival's  brow,  I 
murmured  an  oath,  which  seemed  not  inspired  by  my  own  soul, 
but  by  an  influence  henceforth  given  to  my  fate — I  vowed  that 
the  perfidy  dealt  to  me  should  be  repaid :  I  vowed  that  the  ruin 
of  my  own  existence  should  fall  on  the  brow  which  I  kissed. 
I  vowed  that  if  shame  and  disgrace  were  to  supply  the  inheri- 
tance I  had  forfeited,  I  would  not  stand  alone  amidst  the  scorn 
of  the  pitiless  world.  In  the  vision  of  my  agony,  I  saw,  afar, 
the  altar  dressed,  and  the  bride-chamber  prepared,  and  I 
breathed  my  curse  strong  as  prophecy,  on  the  marriage-hearth 
and  the  marriage-bed.  Why  dream,  then,  that  I  would  rescue 
the  loathed  child  of  that  loathed  union  from  your  grasp?  But 
is  the  time  come?  Yours  may  be  come — is  mine?" 

Something  so  awful  there  was  in  the  look  of  his  accomplice, 
so  intense  in  the  hate  of  her  low  voice,  that  Varney,  wretch  as 
he  was,  and  contemplating  at  that  very  hour  the  foulest  and 
most  hideous  guilt,  drew  back,  appalled. 

Madame  Dalibard  resumed,  and  in  a  somewhat  softer  tone, 
but  softened  only  by  the  anguish  of  despair: 

"Oh,  had  it  been  otherwise,  what  might  I  have  been!  Given 
over  from  that  hour  to  the  very  incarnation  of  plotting  crime — 
none  to  resist  the  evil  impulse  of  my  own  maddening  heart;  the 
partner,  forced  on  me  by  fate,  leading  me  deeper  and  deeper 


LUCRETIA.  233 

into  the  inextricable  hell — from  that  hour,  fraud  upon  fraud, 
guilt  upon  guiit,  infamy  heaped  on  infamy,  till  I  stand  a  mar- 
vel to  myself  that  the  thunderbolt  falls  not ;  that  Nature  thrusts 
not  from  her  breast  a  living  outrage  on  all  her  laws !  Was  I 
not  justified  in  the  desire  of  retribution?  Every  step  that  I 
fell,  every  glance  that  I  gave  to  the  gulf  below,  increased  but 
in  me  the  desire  for  revenge.  All  my  acts  had  flowed  from  one 
fount — should  the  stream  roll  pollution,  and  the  fount  spring 
pure?" 

"You  have  had  your  revenge  on  your  rival  and  her  hus- 
band." 

"I  had  it,  and  I  passed  on!"  said  Lucretia,  with  nostrils  di- 
lated as  with  haughty  triumph;  "They  were  crushed,  and  I 
suffered  them  to  live!  Nay,  when,  by  chance,  I  heard  of  Will- 
iam Mainwaring's  death,!  bowed  down  my  head,  and  I  almost 
think  I  wept.  The  old  days  came  back  upon  me.  Yes,  I 
wept!  But  I  had  not  destroyed  their  love.  No,  no;  there,  I 
had  miserably  failed.  A  pledge  of  that  love  lived.  I  had  left 
their  hearth  barren ;  Fate  sent  them  a  comfort  which  I  had  not 
foreseen.  And  suddenly  my  heart  returned,  my  wrongs  rose 
again,  my  vengeance  was  not  sated.  The  love  that  had  des- 
troyed more  than  my  life — my  soul,  rose  again  and  cursed  me 
in  the  face  of  Helen.  The  oath  which  I  took  when  I  kissed 
my  rival's  brow,  demanded  another  prey  when  I  kissed  the 
child  of  those  nuptials." 

"You  are  prepared  at  last,  then,  to  act?"  cried  Varney,  in  a 
tone  of  savage  joy. 

At  that  moment,  close  under  the  window,  rose,  sudden  and 
sweet,  the  voice  of  one  singing — the  young  voice  of  Helen. 
The  words  were  so  distinct  that  they  came  to  the  ears  of  the 
dark-plotting  and  guilty  pair.  In  the  song  itself  there  was  little 
to  remark,  or  peculiarly  apposite  to  the  consciences  of  those 
who  heard ;  yet  in  the  extreme  and  touching  purity  of  the  voice, 
and  in  the  innocence  of  the  general  spirit  of  the  words,  trite  as 
might  be  the  image  they  conveyed,  there  was  something  that 
contrasted  so  fearfully  their  own  thoughts  and  minds,  that  they 
sate  silent,  looking  vacantly  in  each  other's  faces,  and  shrink- 
ing, perhaps,  to  turn  their  eyes  within  themselves. 

HELEN'S  HYMN. 

"  Ye  fade,  yet  still  how  sweet,  ye  Flowers  ! 

Your  scent  outlives  the  bloom  ! 
So,  Father,  may  my  mortal  hours 
Grow  sweeter  towards  the  tomb  . 


234  LUCRET/IA. 

In  withered  leaves  a  healing  cure 

The  simple  gleaners  find  ; 
So  may  our  withered  hopes  endure 

In  virtues  left  behind  ! 

Oh,  not  to  me  be  vainly  given 

The  lessons  ye  bestow, 
Of  thoughts  that  rise  in  sweets  to  Heaven, 

And  turn  to  use  below." 

The  song  died,  but  still  the  listeners  remained  silent,  till  at 
length  shaking  off  the  effect,  with  his  laugh  of  discordant  irony, 
Varney  said: 

"Sweet  innocence,  fresh  from  the  nursery!  Would  it  not 
be  sin  to  suffer  the  world  to  mar  it?  You  hear  the  prayer — 
why  not  grant  it,  and  let  the  flower  'turn  to  use  below' J" 

"Ah,  but  could  it  wither  first!"  muttered  Lucretia,  with  an 
accent  of  suppressed  rage.  "Do  you  think  that  her — that 
his — daughter  is  to  me  but  a  vulgar  life,  to  be  sacrificed  merely 
for  gold?  Imagine  away  your  sex,  man !  Women  only  know 
what  I — such  as  I,  woman  still — feel  in  the  presence  of  the 
pure!  Do  you  fancy  that  I  should  not  have  held  death  a  bless- 
ing, if  death  could  have  found  me  in  youth  such  as  Helen  is? 
Ah,  could  she  but  live  to  suffer !  Die !  Well,  since  it  must 
be — since  my  son  requires  the  sacrifice — do  as  you  will  with 
the  victim  that  death  mercifully  snatches  from  my  grasp.  I 
could  have  wished  to  prolong  her  life,  to  load  it  with  some  frag- 
ment of  the  curse  her  parents  heaped  upon  me! — baffled  love, 
and  ruin,  and  despair!  I  could  have  hoped  in  this  division  of 
the  spoil,  that  mine  had  been  the  vengeance,  if  yours  the  gold. 
You  want  the  life — I  the  heart ;  the  heart  to  torture  first,  and 
then — why  then — more  willingly  than  I  do  now,  could  I  have 
thrown  the  carcase  to  the  jackal!" 

"Listen!"  began  Varney,  when  the  door  opened,  and  Helen 
herself  stood  unconsciously  smiling  at  the  threshold. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE    LAWYER    AND    THE    BODY-SNATCHER. 

THAT  same  evening,  Beck,  according  to  appointment,  met 
Percival,  and  showed  him  the  dreary-looking  house  which  held 
the  fair  stranger  who  had  so  attracted  his  youthful  fancy.  And 
Percival  looked  at  the  high  walls,  with  the  sailor's  bold  desire  for 
adventure,  while  confused  visions  reflected  from  plays,  operas, 
and  novels,  in  which  scaling  walls  with  rope  ladders  and  dark 


235 

lanterns  was  represented  as  the  natural  avocation  of  a  lover, 
flitted  across  his  brain ;  and  certainly  he  gave  a  deep  sigh, 
as  his  common-sense  plucked  him  back  from  such  romance. 
However,  having  now  ascertained  the  house,  it  would  be  easy 
to  learn  the  name  of  its  inmates,  and  to  watch  or  make  his 
opportunity.  As  slowly  and  reluctantly  he  walked  back  to  the 
spot  where  he  had  left  his  cabriolet,  he  entered  into  some 
desultory  conversation  with  his  strange  guide;  and  the  pity 
he  had  before  conceived  for  Beck  increased  upon  him,  as  he 
talked  and  listened.  This  benighted  mind,  only  illumined 
by  a  kind  of  miserable  astuteness,  and  that  "cunning  of  the 
belly"  which  is  born  of  want  to  engender  avarice — this  joyless 
temperament — this  age  in  youth — this  living  reproach,  rising 
up  from  the  stones  of  London  against  our  social  indifference  to 
the  souls  which  wither  and  rot  under  the  hard  eyes  of  science 
and  the  deaf  ears  of  wealth,  had  a  pathos  for  his  lively  sympa- 
thies and  his  fresh  heart. 

"If  ever  you  want  a  friend,  come  to  me,"  said  St.  John 
abruptly. 

The  sweeper  stared,  and  a  gleam  of  diviner  nature,  a  ray  of 
gratitude  and  unselfish  devotion,  darted  through  the  fog  and 
darkness  of  his  mind.  He  stood,  with  his  hat  off,  watching 
the  wheels  of  the  cabriolet,  as  it  bore  away  the  happy  child  of 
fortune,  and  then  shaking  his  head,  as  at  some  puzzle  that  per- 
plexed and  defied  his  comprehension,  strode  back  to  the  town, 
and  bent  his  way  homeward. 

Between  two  and  three  hours  after  Percival  thus  parted  f^rom 
the  sweeper,  a  man  whose  dress  was  little  in  accordance  with 
the  scene  in  which  we  present  him,  threaded  his  way  through  a 
foul  labyrinth  of  alleys  in  the  worst  part  of  St.  Giles's:  a 
neighborhood,  indeed,  carefully  shunned  at  dusk  by  wealthy 
passengers ;  for  here  dwelt  not  only  Penury  in  its  grimmest 
shape,  but  the  desperate  and  dangerous  Guilt,  which  is  not  to 
be  lightly  encountered  in  its  haunts  and  domiciles.  Here 
children  imbibe  vice  with  their  mother's  milk.  Here  Prostitu- 
tion, commencing  with  childhood,  grows  fierce  and  sanguinary 
in  the  teens,  and  leagues  with  theft  and  murder.  Here  slinks 
the  pickpocket;  here  emerges  the  burglar;  here  skulks  the 
felon.  Yet  all  about  and  all  around,  here,  too,  may  be  found 
virtue  in  its  rarest  and  noblest  form — virtue  outshining  circum- 
stance and  defying  temptation — the  virtue  of  utter  poverty, 
which  groans  and  yet  sins  not.  So  interwoven  are  these  webs 
of  penury  and  fraud,  that  in  one  court  your  life  is  not  safe, 
but  turn  to  the  right  hand,  and  in  the  other,  you  might  sleep 


236  LUCRETIA. 

safely  in  that  worse  than  Irish  shealing,  though  your  pockets 
were  full  of  gold.  Through  these  haunts,  the  ragged  and  pen- 
niless may  walk  unfearing,  for  they  have  nothing  to  dread  from 
the  lawless — more,  perhaps,  from  the  law;  but  the  wealthy, 
the  respectable,  the  spruce,  the  dainty,  let  them  beware  the 
spot,  unless  the  policeman  is  in  sight,  or  day  is  in  the  skies ! 

As  this  passenger,  whose  appearance,  as  we  have  implied, 
was  certainly  not  that  of  a  denizen,  turned  into  one  of  the 
alleys,  a  rough  hand  seized  him  by  the  arm,  and  suddenly  a 
group  of  girls  and  tatterdemalions  issued  from  a  house,  in 
which  the  lower  shutters  unclosed  showed  a  light  burning,  and 
surrounded  him  with  a  hoarse  whoop. 

The  passenger  whispered  a  word  in  the  ear  of  the  grim 
blackguard  who  had  seized  him,  and  his  arm  was  instantly 
released. 

"Hist!  a  pal:  he  has  the  catch,"  said  the  blackguard,  sur- 
lily. The  group  gave  way,  and  by  the  light  of  the  clear  starlit 
skies  and  a  single  lamp,  hung  at  the  entrance  of  the  alley, 
gazed  upon  the  stranger.  But  they  made  no  effort  to  detain 
him ;  and  as  he  disappeared  in  the  distant  shadow,  hastened 
back  into  the  wretched  hostelry,  where  they  had  been  merry- 
making. Meanwhile,  the  stranger  gained  a  narrow  court,  and 
stopped  before  a  house  in  one  of  its  angles — a  house  taller  than 
the  rest — so  much  taller  than  the  rest,  that  it  had  the  effect  of 
a  tower;  you  would  have  supposed  it  (perhaps,  rightly)  to  be 
the  last  remains  of  some  ancient  building  of  importance,  around 
which,  as  population  thickened  and  fashion  changed,  the  huts 
below  it  had  insolently  sprung  up.  Quaint  and  massive  pilas- 
ters, black  with  the  mire  and  soot  of  centuries,  flanked  the 
deep-set  door;  the  windows  were  heavy  with  mullions  and 
transoms,  and  strongly  barred  in  the  lower  floor;  but  few  of 
the  panes  were  whole,  and  only  here  and  there  had  any  at- 
tempt been  made  to  keep  out  the  wind  and  rain  by  rags, 
paper,  old  shoes,  old  hats,  and  other  ingenious  contrivances. 
Beside  the  door  was  conveniently  placed  a  row  of  some  ten  or 
twelve  bell-pulls,  appertaining  no  doubt  to  the  various  lodg- 
ments into  which  the  building  was  subdivided.  The  stranger 
did  not  seem  very  familiar  with  the  appurtenances  of  the  place. 
He  stood  in  some  suspense  as  to  the  proper  bell  to  select,  but 
at  last  guided  by  a  brass-plate  annexed  to  one  of  the  pulls, 
which,  though  it  was  too  dark  to  decipher  the  inscription,  de- 
noted a  claim  to  superior  gentility  than  the  rest  of  that  name- 
less class,  he  hazarded  a  tug,  which  brought  forth  a  larum  loud 
enough  to  startle  the  whole  court  from  its  stillness. 


LUCRETIA.  237 

In  a  minute  or  less,  the  casement  in  one  o.  the  upper  stories 
•   opened,  a  head  peered  forth,  and  one  of  those  voices  peculiar 
to  low  debauch — raw,  cracked,  and  hoarse — called  out:   "Who 
waits?" 

"Is  it  you,  Grabman?"  asked  the  stranger  dubiously. 

"Yes;  Nicholas  Grabman,  attorney-at-law,  sir,  at  your  ser- 
vice; and  your  name?" 

"Jason,"  answered  the  stranger. 

"Ho!  there — ho!  Beck,"  cried  the  cracked  voice  to  somq 
one  within;  "go  down  and  open  the  door." 

In  a  few  moments  the  heavy  portal  swung  and  creaked, 
and  yawned  sullenly,  and  a  gaunt  form,  half-undressed,  with 
an  inch  of  a  farthing  rushlight,  glimmering  through  a  battered 
lantern,  in  its  hand,  presented  itself  to  Jason.  The  last  eyed 
the  ragged  porter  sharply. 

"Do  you  live  here?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Beck,  with  the  cringe  habitual  to  him. 
"H-up  the  ladder,  vith  the  rats,  drat  "em." 

"Well,  lead  on — hold  up  the  lantern  ;  a  devil  of  a  dark  place 
this!"  grumbled  Jason,  as  he  nearly  stumbled  over  sundry 
broken  chattels,  and  gained  a  flight  of  rude,  black,  broken 
stairs,  that  creaked  under  his  tread. 

''StI'st!"  said  Beck,  between  his  teeth,  as  the  stranger, 
halting  at  the  second  floor,  demanded,  in  no  gentle  tones, 
whether  Mr.  Grabman  lived  in  the  chimney-pots. 

'  'StI'st! — don't  make  such  a  rumpus,  or  No.  7  will  be  at 
you." 

"What  do  I  care  for  No.  7?     And  who  the  devil  is  No.  7?" 

"A  Body-snatcher!"  whispered  Beck,  with  a  shudder. 
"He's  a  dillicut  sleeper,  and  can't  abide  having  his  night's  rest 
sp'ilt.  And  he's  the  houtrageoustest  great  cretur,  when  he's 
h-up  in  his  tantrums — it  makes  your  'air  stand  on  ind  to  ear 
him ! ' ' 

"I  should  like  very  much  to  hear  him,  then,"  said  the  stran- 
ger curiously.  And  while  he  spoke,  the  door  of  No.  7  opened 
abruptly.  A  huge  head,  covered  with  matted  hair,  was  thrust 
for  a  moment  through  the  aperture,  and  two  dull  eyes,  that 
seem  covered  with  a  film,  like  that  of  the  birds  which  feed  on 
the  dead,  met  the  stranger's  bold  sparkling  orbs. 

"Hell  and  fury,"  bawled  out  the  voice  of  this  ogre,  like  a 
clap  of  near  thunder,  "if  you  two  keep — tramp,  tramp  there, 

close  at  my  door,  I'll  make  you  meat  for  the  surgeons — b 

you ! ' ' 

"Stop  a  moment,  my   civil   friend,"  said  the   stranger,  ad- 


vancing;  "just  stand  where  you  are;  I  should  like  to  make  a 
sketch  of  your  head." 

That  head  protruded  farther  from  the  door,  and  with  it  an 
enormous  bulk  of  chest  and  shoulder.  But  the  adventurous 
visitor  was  not  to  be  daunted.  He  took  out,  very  coolly,  a 
pencil,  and  the  back  of  a  letter,  and  began  his  sketch. 

The  body-snatcher  stared  at  him  an  instant,  in  mute  aston- 
ishment; but  that  operation  and  the  composure  of  the  artist 
were  so  new  to  him,  that  they  actually  inspired  him  with  terror. 
He  slunk  back — banged  to  the  door.  And  the  stranger,  putting 
up  his  implements,  said  with  a  disdainful  laugh,  to  Beck,  who 
had  slunk  away  into  a  corner: 

"No.  7  knows  well  how  to  take  care  of  No.  i.  Lead  on, 
and  be  quick  then!" 

As  they  continued  to  mount,  they  heard  the  body-snatcher 
growling  and  blaspheming  in  his  den,  and  the  sound  made 
Beck  clamber  the  quicker,  till  at  the  next  landing-place,  he 
took  breath,  threw  open  a  door,  and  Jason,  pushing  him  aside, 
entered  first. 

The  interior  of  the  room  bespoke  better  circumstances  than 
might  have  been  supposed  from  the  approach:  the  floor  was 
covered  with  sundry  scraps  of  carpets,  formerly  of  different 
hues  and  patterns,  but  mellowed  by  time  into  one  threadbare 
mass  of  grease  and  canvas.  There  was  a  good  fire  on  the 
hearth,  though  the  night  was  warm,  there  were  sundry  vol- 
umes piled  round  the  walls,  in  the  binding  peculiar  to  law 
books ;  in  a  corner,  stood  a  tall  desk,  of  the  fashion  used  by 
clerks,  perched  on  tall,  slim  legs,  and  companioned  by  a  tall, 
slim  stool.  On  a  table  before  the  fire  were  scattered  the  re- 
mains of  the  nightly  meal ;  broiled  bones,  the  skeleton  of  a 
herring;  and  the  steam  rose  from  a  tumbler,  containing  a 
liquid,  colorless  as  water,  but  poisonous  as  gin. 

The  room  was  squalid  and  dirty,  and  bespoke  mean  and  slov- 
enly habits,  but  it  did  not  bespeak  penury  and  want ;  it  had 
even  an  air  of  filthy  comfort  of  its  own — the  comfort  of  the 
swine  in  its  warm  sty.  The  occupant  of  the  chamber  was  in 
keeping  with  the  localities.  Figure  to  yourself  a  man  of  middle 
height — not  thin,  but  void  of  all  muscular  flesh,  bloated,  puffed, 
anwholesome.  He  was  dressed  in  a  gray  flannel  gown  and  short 
breeches,  the  stockings  wrinkled  and  distained,  the  feet  in  slip- 
pers. The  stomach  was  that  of  a  portly  man,  the  legs  those 
of  a  skeleton ;  the  cheeks  full  and  swollen,  like  a  plough- 
boy's,  but  livid,  bespeckled,  of  a  dull  lead-color,  like  a  patient 
in  the  dropsy.  The  head,  covered  in  patches  with  thin,  yel- 


LUCRETIA.  23$ 

lowish  hair,  gave  some  promise  of  intellect,  for  the  forehead 
was  high,  and  appeared  still  more  so  from  partial  baldness;  the 
eyes,  embedded  in  fat  and  wrinkled  skin,  were  small  and  lus- 
treless, but  they  still  had  that  acute  look  which  education  and 
ability  communicate  to  the  human  orb ;  the  mouth  most  showed 
the  animal — full-lipped,  coarse,  and  sensual;  while  behind  one 
of  two  great  ears  stuck  a  pen. 

You  see  before  you,  then,  this  slatternly  figure,  slip-shod, 
half-clothed,  v/ith  a  sort  of  shabby-demi-gentility  about  it ; 
half-ragamuffin,  half-clerk ;  while,  in  strong  contrast,  appeared 
the  new-comer,  scrupulously  neat,  new,  with  bright  black  satin 
stock,  coat  cut  jauntily  to  the  waist,  varnished  boots,  kid 
gloves,  and  trim  moustache. 

Behind  this  sleek  and  comely  personage,  on  knock-knees,  in 
torn  shirt  open  at  the  throat,  with  apathetic,  listless,  unlighted 
face,  stood  the  lean  and  gawkey  Beck. 

"Set  a  chair  for  the  gentleman,"  said  the  inmate  of  the 
chamber  to  Beck,  with  a  dignified  wave  of  the  hand. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr. — Mr. — humph — Jason?  How  do 
you  do?  Always  smart  and  blooming — the  world  thrives 
with  you." 

"The  world  is  a  farm,  that  thrives  with  all  who  till  it  prop- 
erly, Grabman,"  answered  Jason  dryly,  and  with  his  handker- 
chief he  carefully  dusted  the  chair  on  which  he  then  daintily 
deposited  his  person. 

"But  who  is  your  Ganymede — your  valet,  your  gentleman 
usher?" 

"Oh!  a  lad  about  town,  who  lodges  above  and  does  odd 
jobs  for  me:  brushes  my  coat,  cleans  my  shoes,  and,  after  his 
day's  work,  goes  an  errand  now  and  then.  Make  yourself 
scarce,  Beck!  Anatomy,  vanish!" 

Beck  grinned,  nodded,  pulled  hard  at  a  flake  of  his  hair, 
and  closed  the  door. 

"One  of  your  brotherhood,  that?"  asked  Jason  carelessly. 

"He,  oaf!  No,"  said  Grabman,  with  profound  contempt  in 
his  sickly  visage.  "He  works  for  his  bread!  Instinct! 
Turnspits,  and  truffle-dogs,  and  some  silly  men  have  it!  What 
an  age  since  we  met — shall  I  mix  you  a  tumbler?" 

"You  know  I  never  drink  your  vile  spirits;  though  in 
Champagne  and  Bordeaux  I  am  any  man's  match." 

"And  how  the  devil  do  you  keep  old  black  thoughts  out  of 
your  mind  by  those  washy  potations?" 

"Old  black  thoughts!      Of  what?" 

"Of  black  actions,  Jason.     We  have  not  met  since  you  paid 


246  LUCREflA. 

me  for  recommending  the  nurse  who  attended  your  uncle  in 
his  last  illness?" 

"Well,  poor  coward?" 

Grabman  knit  his  thin  eyebrows,  and  gnawed  his  blubber 
lip: 

"I  am  no  coward,  as  you  know." 

"Not  when  a  thing  is  to  be  done,  but  after  it  is  done.  You 
brave  the  substance,  and  tremble  at  the  shadow.  I  dare  say 
you  see  ugly  goblins  in  the  dark,  Grabman." 

"Ay,  ay;  but  it  is  no  use  talking  to  you.  You  call  yourself 
Jason,  because  of  your  yellow  hair,  or  your  love  for  the  golden 
fleece ;  but  your  old  comrades  called  you  Rattlesnake,  and  you 
have  its  blood,  as  its  venom." 

"And  its  charm,  man,"  added  Jason,  with  a  strange  smile, 
that,  though  hypocritical  and  constrained,  had  yet  a  certain 
softness,  and  added  greatly  to  the  comeliness  of  features,  which 
many  might  call  beautiful,  and  all  would  allow  to  be  regular 
and  symmetrical.  "I  shall  find  at  least  ten  love-letters  on  my 
table  when  I  go  home.  But  enough  of  these  fopperies:  I  am 
here  on  business." 

"Law,  of  course:  I  am  your  man — who's  the  victim!"  And 
a  hideous  grin  on  Grabman 's  face  contrasted  the  sleek  smile 
that  yet  lingered  upon  his  visitor's. 

"No;  something  less  hazardous,  but  not  less  lucrative  than 
our  old  practices.  This  is  a  business  that  may  bring  you  hun- 
dreds, thousands ;  that  may  take  you  from  this  hovel,  to  spec- 
ulate at  the  West  End ;  that  may  change  your  gin  into  Lafitte 
and  your  herring  into  venison ;  that  may  lift  the  broken  attor- 
ney again  upon  the  wheel — again  to  roll  down,  it  may  be ;  but 
that  is  your  affair." 

'"Fore  Gad,  open  the  case,"  cried  Grabman  eagerly,  and 
shoving  aside  the  ignoble  relics  of  his  supper,  he  leaned  his 
elbows  on  the  table,  and  his  chin  on  his  damp  palms,  while 
eyes,  that  positively  brightened  into  an  expression  of  greedy 
and  relentless  intelligence,  were  fixed  upon  his  visitor. 

"The  case  runs  thus,"  said  Jason:  "Once  upon  a  time  there 
lived,  at  an  old  house  in  Hampshire,  called  Laughton,  a 
wealthy  baronet  named  St.  John.  He  was  a  bachelor — his 
estates  at  his  own  disposal.  He  had  two  nieces  and  a  more 
distant  kinsman.  His  eldest  niece  lived  with  him;  she  was 
supposed  to  be  destined  for  his  heiress ;  circumstances,  need- 
less to  relate,  brought  upon  this  girl  her  uncle's  displeasure; 
she  was  dismissed  his  house.  Shortly  afterwards  he  died, 
leaving  to  his  kinsman — a  Mr.  Vernon — his  estates,  with  re- 


LUCRETIA.  241 

mainder  to  Vernon's  issue,  and,  in  default  thereof,  first,  to  the 
issue  of  the  younger  niece,  next  to  that  of  the  elder  and  disin- 
herited one.  The  elder  married,  and  was  left  a  widow,  with- 
out children.  She  married  again,  and  had  a  son.  Her  second 
husband,  for  some  reason  or  other,  conceived  ill  opinions  of 
his  wife.  In  his  last  illness  (he  did  not  live  long)  he  resolved 
to  punish  the  wife  by  robbing  the  mother.  He  sent  away  the 
son,  nor  have  we  been  able  to  discover  him  since.  It  is  that 
son  whom  you  are  to  find." 

"I  see,  I  see!  Go  on,"  said  Grabman.  "This  son  is  now 
the  remainder-man.  How  lost?  When?  What  year?  What 
trace?" 

"Patience!  You  will  find  in  this  paper  the  date  of  the  loss, 
and  the  age  of  the  child,  then  a  mere  infant.  Now  for  the 
trace.  This  husband — did  I  tell  you  his  name?  No — Alfred 
Braddell — had  one  friend  more  intimate  than  the  rest ;  John 
Walter  Ardworth,  a  cashiered  officer,  a  ruined  man,  pursued  by 
bill-brokers,  Jews,  and  bailiffs.  To  this  man  we  have  lately 
had  reason  to  believe  that  the  child  was  given.  Ardworth,  how- 
ever, was  shortly  afterwards  obliged  to  fly  his  creditors.  We 
know  that  he  went  to  India,  but  if  residing  there,  it  must  have 
been  under  some  new  name,  and  we  fear  he  is  now  dead.  All 
our  inquiries,  at  least,  after  this  man,  have  been  fruitless. 
Before  he  went  abroad,  he  left  with  his  old  tutor  a  child,  cor- 
responding in  age  to  that  of  Mrs.  Braddell's.  In  this  child  she 
thinks  she  recognizes  her  son.  All  that  you  have  to  do  is  to 
trace  his  identity,  by  good  legal  evidence — don't  smile  in  that 
foolish  way — I  mean  sound,  bond  fide  evidence,  that  will  stand 
the  fire  of  cross-examination;  you  know  what  that  is!  You 
will  therefore  find  out  first,  whether  Braddell  did  consign  his 
child  to  Ardworth,  and,  if  so,  you  must  then  follow  Ardworth, 
with  that  child  in  his  keeping,  to  Matthew  Fielden's  house, 
whose  address  you  find  noted  in  the  paper  I  gave  you,  together 
with  many  other  memoranda  as  to  Ardworth's  creditors,  and 
those  whom  he  is  likely  to  have  come  across." 

"John  Ardworth,  I  see!" 

"John  Walter  Ardworth,  commonly  called  Walter;  he,  like 
me,  preferred  to  be  known  only  by  his  second  baptismal  name. 
He,  because  of  a  favorite  Radical  godfather,  I,  because  Hon- 
ore  is  an  inconvenient  Gallicism,  and  perhaps  when  Honore 
Mirabeau  (my  godfather)  went  out  of  fashion  with  the  sans- 
culottes, my  father  thought  Gabriel  a  safer  designation.  Now 
I  have  told  you  all!" 

"What  is  the  mother's  maiden  name?" 


242  LUCRETIA. 

"Her  maiden  name  was  Clavering;  she  was  married  under 
that  of  Dalibard,  her  first  husband." 

"And,"  said  Grabman,  looking  over  the  notes  in  the  paper 
given  to  him,  "it  is  at  Liverpool  that  the  husband  died,  and 
whence  the  child  was  sent  away?" 

"It  is  so;  to  Liverpool  you  will  go  first.  I  tell  you  fairly, 
the  task  is  difficult,  for  hitherto  it  has  foiled  me.  I  knew  but 
one  man  who,  without  flattery,  could  succeed ;  and  therefore 
I  spared  no  pains  to  find  out  Nicholas  Grabman.  You  have 
the  true  ferret's  faculty;  you,  too,  are  a  lawyer,  and  snuff  evi- 
dence in  every  breath.  Find  up  a  son — a  legal  son — a  son  to 
be  shown  in  a  court  of  law,  and  the  moment  he  steps  into  the 
lands  and  the  Hall  of  Laughton,  you  have  £5000." 

"Can  I  have  a  bond  to  that  effect? 

"My  bond  I  fear  is  worth  no  more  than  my  word.  Trust  to 
the  last ;  if  I  break  it  you  know  enough  of  my  secrets  to  hang 
me!" 

"Don't  talk  of  hanging — I  hate  that  subject.  But  stop — If 
found,  does  this  son  succeed?  Did  this  Mr.  Vernon  leave  no 
heir — this  other  sister  continue  single,  or  prove  barren?" 

"Oh,  true!  He,  Mr.  Vernon,  who  by  will  took  the  name  of 
St.  John,  he  left  issue — but  only  one  son  still  survives,  a  minor 
and  unmarried.  The  sister,  too,  left  a  daughter;  both  are 
poor,  sickly  creatures — their  lives  not  worth  a  straw.  Never 
mind  them.  You  find  Vincent  Braddell,  and  he  will  not  be 
long  out  of  his  property,  nor  you  out  of  your  £5000.  You  see, 
under  these  circumstances,  a  bond  might  become  dangerous 
evidence! " 

Grabman  emitted  a  fearful  and  tremulous  chuckle ;  a  laugh, 
like  the  laugh  of  a  superstitious  man  when  you  talk  to  him  of 
ghosts  and  churchyards.  He  chuckled,  and  his  hair  bristled'. 
But,  after  a  pause,  in  which  he  seemed  to  wrestle  with  his 
own  conscience,  he  said:  "Well,  well — you  are  a  strange 
man,  Jason,  you  love  your  joke — I  have  nothing  to  do,  ex- 
cept to  find  out  this  ultimate  remainder-man — mind  that!" 

"Perfectly;  nothing  like  subdivision  of  labor." 

"The  search  will  be  expensive!" 

"There  is  oil  for  your  wheels,"  answered  Jason,  putting  a 
note-book  into  his  confidant's  hands.  "But  mind,  you  waste 
it  not ;  no  tricks,  no  false  play,  with  me ;  you  know  Jason,  or 
if  you  like  the  name  better,  you  know  the  Rattlesnake!" 

"I  will  account  for  every  penny,"  said  Grabman  eagerly, 
and  clasping  his  hands,  while  his  pale  face  grew  livid. 

"I  do  not  doubt  it,  my  quill-driver,     Look  sharp,  start  to- 


LUCRETIA.  243 

morrow!  Get  thyself  decent  clothes,  be  sober,  cleanly,  and 
respectable.  Act  as  a  man  who  sees  before  him  five  thousand 
pounds.  And,  now  light  me  downstairs." 

With  the  candle  in  his  hand,  Grabman  stole  down  the  rugged 
steps,  even  more  timorously  than  Beck  had  ascended  them 
and  put  his  finger  to  his  mouth  as  they  came  in  the  dread 
vicinity  of  No.  7.  But  Jason,  or  rather  Gabriel  Varney,  with 
that  fearless,  reckless  bravado  of  temper,  which,  while  causing 
half  his  guilt,  threw  at  times  a  false  glitter  over  its  baseness, 
piqued  by  the  cowardice  of  his  comrade,  gave  a  lusty  kick  at 
the  closed  door,  and  shouted  out:  "Old  Grave-stealer,  come 
out,  and  let  me  finish  your  picture.  Out,  out!  I  say — out!" 
Grabman  left  the  candle  on  the  steps,  and  made  but  three 
bounds  to  his  own  room. 

At  the  third  shout  of  his  disturber,  the  Resurrection-man 
threw  open  his  door  violently,  and  appeared  at  the  gap,  the 
upward  flare  of  the  candle  showing  the  deep  lines  ploughed  in 
his  hideous  face,  and  the  immense  strength  of  his  gigantic 
trunk  and  limbs.  Slight,  fair,  and  delicate  as  he  was,  Varney 
eyed  him  deliberately,  and  trembled  not. 

"What  do  you  want  with  me?"  said  the  terrible  voice, trem- 
ulous with  rage. 

"Only  to  finish  your  portrait,  as  Pluto.  He  was  the  god  of 
Hell,  you  know!" 

The  next  moment  the  vast  hand  of  the  ogre  hung  like  a 
great  cloud  over  Gabriel  Varney.  This  last,  ever  on  his  guard, 
sprang  aside,  and  the  light  gleamed  on  the  steel  of  a  pistol. 
"Hands  off! — or — " 

The  click  of  the  pistol-cock  finished  the  sentence.  The 
ruffian  halted.  A  glare  of  disappointed  fury  gave  a  momen- 
tary lustre  to  his  dull  eyes.  "P'raps  I  shall  meet  you.  agin  one 
o'  these  days  or  nights,  and  I  shall  know  ye  in  ten  thousand." 

"Nothing  like  the  bird  in  the  hand  Master  Grave-stealer! 
Where  can  we  ever  meet  again?" 

"P'raps  in  the  fields — p'raps  on  the  road — p'raps  at  the  Old 
Bailey — p'raps  at  the  gallows — p'raps  in  the  convict-ship — I 
knows  what  that  is!  I  was  chained  night  and  day  once  to  a 
chap  jist  like  you;  didn't  I  break  his  spurit — didn't  I  spile  his 
sleep!  Ho,  ho!  You  looks  a  bit  less  varmently  howdacious 
now,  my  flash  cove!" 

Varney  hitherto  had  not  known  one  pang  of  fear,  one  quicker 
beat  of  the  heart  before.  But  the  image  presented  to  his  irri- 
table fancy  (always  prone  to  brood  over  terrors) — the  image  of 
that  companion,  chained  to  him  night  and  day,  suddenly 


244  LUCRETIA. 

quelled  his  courage;  the  image  stood  before  him  palpably  like 
the  Oulos  Oneiros — the  Evil  Dream  of  the  Greeks. 

He  breathed  loud.  The  body-stealer's  stupid  sense  saw 
that  he  had  produced  the  usual  effect  of  terror,  which  gratified 
his  brutal  self-esteem ;  he  retreated  slowly,  inch  by  inch,  to 
the  door,  followed  by  Varney's  appalled  and  staring  eye,  and 
closed  it  with  such  violence  that  the  candle  was  extinguished. 

Varney,  not  daring — yes  literally,  not  daring — to  call  aloud  to 
Grabman  for  another  light,  crept  down  the  dark  stairs  with 
hurried  ghost-like  steps,  and,  after  groping  at  the  door-handle 
with  one  hand,  while  the  other  grasped  his  pistol,  with  a  strain 
of  horror,  he  succeeded  at  last  in  winning  access  to  the  street, 
and  stood  a  moment  to  collect  himself,  in  the  open  air; — the 
damps  upon  his  forehead,  and  his  limbs  trembling  like  one  who 
has  escaped  by  a  hair-breadth  the  crash  of  a  falling  house. 

CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  RAPE  OF  THE  MATTRESS. 

THAT  Mr.  Grabman  slept  calmly  that  night  is  probable 
enough,  for  his  gin-bottle  was  empty  the  next  morning;  and  it 
was  with  eyes  more  than  usually  heavy  that  he  dozily  followed 
the  movements  of  Beck,  who,  according  to  custom,  opened 
the  shutters  of  the  little  den  adjoining  his  sitting-room,  brushed 
his  clothes,  made  his  fire,  set  on  the  kettle  to  boil,  and  laid  his 
breakfast-things,  preparatory  to  his  own  departure  to  the  duties 
of  the  day.  Stretching  himself,  however,  and  shaking  off  slum- 
ber, as  the  remembrance  of  the  enterprise  he  had  undertaken 
glanced  pleasantly  across  him,  Grabman  sat  up  in  his  bed,  and 
said  in  a  voice  that  if  not  maudlin  was  affectionate,  and  if  not 
affectionate  was  maudlin : 

"Beck,  you  are  a  good  fellow!  You  have  faults ;  you  are 
human ;  humanum  est  errare,  which  means  that  you  sometimes 
scorch  my  muffins.  But,  take  you  all  in  all  you  are  a  kind 
creature.  Beck,  I  am  going  into  the  country  for  some  days. 
I  shall  leave  my  key  in  the  hole  in  the  wall — you  know ;  take 
care  of  it  when  you  come  in.  You  were  out  late  last  night,  my 
poor  fellow.  Very  wrong !  Look  well  to  yourself  or  who  knows 
you  may  be  clutched  by  that  blackguard  Resurrection-man 
No.  7.  Well,  well!  To  think  of  that  Jason's  fool-hardiness. 
But  he's  the  worse  devil  of  the  two.  Eh  !  What  was  I  saying? 
And  always  give  a  look  into  my  room  every  night  before  you 
go  to  roost.  The  place  swarms  with  cracksmen,  and  one  can't 


LUCRETIA.  245 

be  too  cautious.  Lucky  dog,  you,  to  have  nothing  to  be  robbed 
of!" 

Beck  winced  at  that  last  remark.  Grabman  did  not  seem  to 
notice  his  confusion,  and  preceded,  as  he  put  on  his  stockings : 
"And,  Beck,  you  are  a  good  fellow,  and  have  served  me  faith- 
fully ;  when  I  come  back,  I  will  bring  you  something  hand- 
some— a  backey-box,  or,  who  knows,  a  beautiful  silver  watch. 
Meanwhile,  I  think — let  me  see — yes,  I  can  give  you  this  ele- 
gant pair  of  small-clothes.  Put  out  my  best — the  black  ones. 
And  now,  Beck,  I'll  not  keep  you  any  longer." 

The  poor  sweep,  with  many  pulls  at  his  forelock,  acknowl- 
edged the  munificent  donation,  and  having  finished  all  his  prep- 
arations, hastened  first  to  his  room,  to  examine  at  leisure,  and 
with  great  admiration,  the  drab  small-clothes.  Room,  indeed, 
we  can  scarcely  style  the  wretched  inclosure  which  Beck  called 
his  own.  It  was  at  the  top  of  the  house,  under  the  roof,  and 
hot — oh,  so  hot,  in  the  summer!  It  had  one  small  begrimed 
window,  through  which  the  light  of  heaven  never  came,  for  the 
parapet,  beneath  which  ran  the  choked  gutter,  prevented  that. 
But  the  rain  and  the  wind  came  in.  So,  sometimes,  through 
four  glassless  panes,  came  a  fugitive  tom-cat.  As  for  the  rats, 
they  held  the  place  as  their  own.  Accustomed  to  Beck,  they 
cared  nothing  for  him.  They  were  the  Mayors  of  that  Palace — 
he  only  le  roi  faineant.  They  ran  over  his  bed  at  night;  he 
often  felt  them  on  his  face,  and  was  convinced  they  would  have 
eaten  him  if  there  had  been  anything  worth  eating  upon  his 
bones ;  still,  perhaps  out  of  precaution  rather  than  charity,  he 
generally  left  them  a  potato  or  two,  or  a  crust  of  bread,  to  take 
off  the  edge  of  their  appetites.  But  Beck  was  far  better  off 
than  most  who  occupied  the  various  settlements  in  that  Alsatia — 
he  had  his  room  to  himself.  That  was  necessary  to  his  sole 
luxury — the  inspection  of  his  treasury,  the  safety  of  his  mat- 
tress; for  it  he  paid,  without  grumbling,  what  he  thought 
was  a  very  high  rent.  To  this  hole  in  the  roof  there  was  no 
lock ;  for  a  very  good  reason,  there  was  no  door  to  it.  You 
went  up  a  ladder,  as  you  would  go  into  a  loft.  Now,  it  had 
often  been  matter  of  much  intense  cogitation  to  Beck  whether 
or  not  he  should  have  a  door  to  this  chamber;  and  the  result  of 
the  cogitation  was  invariably  the  same — he  dared  not!  What 
should  he  want  with  a  door — a  door  with  a  lock  to  it — for  one 
followed  as  a  consequence  to  the  other.  Such  a  novel  piece  of 
grandeur  would  be  an  ostentatious  advertisement  that  he  had 
something  to  guard.  He  could  have  no  pretence  for  it  on  the 
ground  that  he  was  intruded  on  by  neighbors;  no  step  but  his 


546  LtTCREflA. 

own  was  ever  caught  by  him  ascending  that  ladder ;  it  led  to  no 
other  room.  All  the  offices  required  for  the  lodgment  he  per- 
formed himself.  His  supposed  poverty  was  a  better  safeguard 
than  doors  of  iron.  Besides  this,  a  door,  if  dangerous,  would 
be  superfluous;  the  moment  it  was  suspected  that  Beck  had  some- 
thing worth  guarding,  that  moment  all  the  picklocks  and  skele- 
ton keys  in  the  neighborhood  would  be  in  a  jingle.  And  a 
cracksman  of  high  repute  lodged  already  on  the  ground-floor. 
So  Beck's  treasure,  like  the  bird's-nest,  was  deposited  as  much 
out  of  sight  as  his  instinct  could  contrive;  and  the  locks  and 
bolts  of  civilized  man  were  equally  dispensed  with  by  bird  and 
Beck. 

On  a  rusty  nail  the  sweep  suspended  the  drab  small-clothes, 
stroked  them  down  lovingly,  and  murmured:  "They  be's  too 
good  for  I — I  should  like  to  pop  'em!  But  vouldn't  that  be  a 
shame?  Beck,  ben't  you  a  hungrateful  beast  to  go  for  to  think 
of  nothing  but  the  tin,  ven  your  'art  ought  to  varm  with  hemo- 
tion?  I  vill  vear  'em  ven  I  vaits  on  him.  Ven  he  sees  his  own 
smalls  bringing  in  the  muffins,  he  will  say,  'Beck,  you  becomes 
'em' !" 

Fraught  with  this  noble  resolution,  the  sweep  caught  up  his 
broom,  crept  down  the  ladder,  and,  with  a  furtive  glance  at  the 
door  of  the  room  in  which  the  cracksman  lived,  let  himself  out, 
and  shambled  his  way  to  his  crossing.  Grabman,  in  the  mean 
while,  dressed  himself  with  more  care  than  usual,  shaved  his 
beard  from  a  four-days'  crop,  and,  while  seated  at  his  breakfast, 
read  attentively  over  the  notes  which  Varney  had  left  to  him, 
pausing  at  times  to  make  his  own  pencil  memoranda.  He  then 
packed  up  such  few  articles  as  so  moderate  a  worshipper  of  the 
Graces  might  require,  deposited  them  in  an  old  blue  brief-bag; 
and  this  done  he  opened  his  door,  and  creeping  to  the  thresh- 
old listened  carefully.  Below,  a  few  sounds  might  be  heard: 
here,  the  wail  of  a  child;  there,  the  shrill  scold  of  a  woman, 
in  that  accent  above  all  others  adapted  to  scold — the  Irish. 
Farther  down  still,  the  deep  bass  oath  of  the  choleric  Resurrec- 
tion-man; but  above,  all  was  silent.  Only  one  floor  intervened 
between  Grabman's  apartment  and  the  ladder  that  led  to  Beck's 
loft.  And  the  inmates  of  that  room  gave  no  sound  of  life. 
Grabman  took  courage,  and,  shuffling  off  his  shoes,  ascended 
the  stairs;  he  passed  the  closed  door  of  the  room  above:  he 
seized  the  ladder  with  a  shaking  hand;  he  mounted,  step  after 
step — he  stood  in  Beck's  room. 

Now,  O  Nicholas  Grabman,  some  moralists  may  be  harsh 
enough  to  condemn  thee  for  what  thou  art  doing:  kneeling  yon- 


LUCRETIA.  247 

der,  in  the  dim  light  by  that  curtainless  pallet,  with  greedy  fin- 
gers feeling  here  and  there,  and  a  placid,  self-hugging  smile  upon 
thy  pale  lips.  That  poor  vagabond,  whom  thou  art  about  to  de- 
spoil, has  served  thee  well  and  faithfully,  has  borne  with  thine 
ill  humors,  thy  sarcasms,  thy  swearings,  thy  kicks  and  buffets; 
often,  when  in  the  bestial  sleep  of  drunkenness,  he  has  found 
thee  stretched  helpless  on  thy  floor,  with  a  kindly  hand  he  has 
moved  away  the  sharp  fender,  too  near  that  knavish  head,  now 
bent  on  his  ruin ;  or  closed  the  open  window,  lest  the  keen  air, 
that  thy  breath  tainted,  should  visit  thee  with  rheum  and  fever. 
Small  has  been  his  guerdon  for  uncomplaining  sacrifice  of  the 
few  hours  spared  to  the  weary  drudge  from  his  daily  toil — small, 
but  gratefully  received.  And  if  Beck  had  been  taught  to  pray, 
he  would  have  prayed  for  thee,  as  for  a  good  man,  O  miserable 
sinner!  And  thou  art  going  now,  Nicholas  Grabman,  upon  an 
enterprise  which  promises  thee  large  gains,  and  thy  purse  is  filled 
and  thou  wantest  nothing  for  thy  wants,  or  thy  swinish  luxu- 
ries. Why  should  those  shaking  fingers  itch  for  the  poor  beg- 
gar-man's hoards? 

But  hadst  thou  been  bound  on  an  errand  that  would  have 
given  thee  a  million,  thou  wouldst  not  have  left  unrifled  that 
secret  store  which  thy  prying  eye  had  discovered,  and  thy  hun- 
gry heart  had  coveted.  No ;  since  one  night,  fatal,  alas !  to  the 
owner  of  loft  and  treasure,  when,  needing  Beck  for  some  ser- 
vice, and  fearing  to  call  aloud  (for  the  Resurrection-man  in  the 
floor  below  thee,  whose  oaths  even  now  ascend  to  thine  ear, 
sleeps  ill,  and  has  threatened  to  make  thee  mute  forever  if  thou 
disturbest  him  in  the  few  nights  in  which  his  dismal  calling  suf- 
fers him  to  sleep  at  all),  thou  didst  creep  up  the  ladder,  and 
didst  see  the  unconscious  miser  at  his  nightly  work,  and  after 
the  sight,  didst  steal  down  again,  smiling — no ;  since  that  night, 
no  schoolboy  ever  more  rootedly  and  ruthlessly  set  his  mind 
upon  nest  of  linnet,  than  thine  was  set  upon  the  stores  in  Beck's 
mattress. 

And  yet  why,  O  lawyer,  should  rigid  moralists  blame  thee  more 
than  such  of  thy  tribe  as  live  honored  and  respectable,  upon 
the  frail  and  the  poor?  Who  among  them  ever  left  loft  or  mat- 
tress while  a  rap  could  be  wrung  from  either?  Matters  it  to 
Astrsea,  whether  the  spoliation  be  made,  thus  nakedly  and 
briefly,  or  by  all  the  acknowledged  forms  in  which  item  on 
item,  six-and-eightpence  on  six-and-eightpence,  the  inexorable 
hand  closes,  at  length,  on  the  last  farthing  of  duped  despair? 
Not — Heaven  forbid ! — that  we  make  thee,  foul  Nicholas  Grab- 
man,  a  type  for  all  the  class  called  attorneys-at-law !  Noble 


248  LUCREflA. 

hearts,  liberal  minds,  are  there  amongst  that  brotherhood,  we 
know,  and  have  experienced ;  but  a  type  art  thou  of  those  whom 
want,  and  error,  and  need  have  proved — alas,  too  well — the 
lawyers  of  the  poor.  And  even  while  we  write,  and  even  while 
ye  read,  many  a  Grabman  steals  from  helpless  toil  the  savings 
of  a  life. 

Ye  poor  hoards — darling  delights  of  your  otherwise  joyless 
owner — how  easily  has  his  very  fondness  made  ye  the  prey  of 
the  spoiler!  How  gleefully  when  the  pence  swelled  into  a  shil- 
ling have  they  been  exchanged  into  the  new  bright  piece  of 
silver,  the  newest  and  brightest  that  could  be  got!  Then  the 
shillings  into  crowns,  then  the  crowns  into  gold — got  slyly  and 
at  a  distance,  and  contemplated  with  what  rapture!  So  that, 
at  last,  the  total  lay  manageable  and  light  in  its  radiant  com- 
pass. And  what  a  total !  What  a  surprise  to  Grabman  !  Had 
it  been  but  a  sixpence,  he  would  have  taken  it;  but  to  grasp 
sovereigns  by  the  handful,  it  was  too  much  for  him ;  and,  as  he 
rose,  he  positively  laughed  from  a  sense  of  fun. 

But  amongst  his  booty,  there  was  found  one  thing  that  spe- 
cially moved  his  mirth — it  was  a  child's  coral,  with  its  little 
bells.  Who  could  have  given  Beck  such  a  bauble,  or  how 
Beck  could  have  refrained  from  turning  it  into  money,  would 
have  been  a  fit  matter  for  speculation.  But  it  was  not  that  at 
which  Grabman  chuckled;  he  laughed,  first,  because  it  was  an 
emblem  of  the  utter  childishness  and  folly  of  the  creature  he 
was  leaving  penniless;  and,  secondly,  because  it  furnished  his 
ready  wit  with  a  capital  contrivance  to  shift  Beck's  indig- 
nation from  his  own  shoulders  to  a  party  more  liable  to  suspi- 
cion. He  left  the  coral  on  the  floor  near  the  bed,  stole  down 
the  ladder,  reached  his  own  room,  took  up  his  brief-bag,  locked 
his  door,  slipped  the  key  in  the  rat-hole,  where  the  trusty, 
plundered  Beck  alone  could  find  it,  and  went  boldly  down- 
stairs ;  passing  successively  the  doors,  within  which  still  stormed 
the  Resurrection-man,  still  wailed  the  child,  still  shrieked  the 
Irish  shrew ;  he  paused  at  the  ground-floor  occupied  by  Bill  the 
cracksman,  and  his  long-fingered,  slender,  quick- eyed  imps, 
trained  already  to  pass  through  broken  window-panes,  on  their 
precocious  progress  to  the  hulks. 

The  door  was  open,  and  gave  a  pleasant  sight  of  the  worthy 
family  within.  Bill,  himself,  a  stout  looking  fellow,  with  a  florid, 
jolly  countenance,  and  a  pipe  in  his  mouth,  was  sitting  at  his 
window,  with  his  brawny  legs  lolling  on  a  table  covered  with 
the  remains  of  a  very  tolerable  breakfast.  Four  small  Bills 
were  employed  in  certain  sports,  which  no  doubt,  according  to 


LUCRETIA.    ^  249 

the  fashionable  mode  of  education,  instilled  useful  lessons 
under  the  artful  guise  of  playful  amusement.  Against  the  wall, 
at  one  corner  of  the  room,  Was  affixed  a  row  of  bells,  from 
which  were  suspended  exceedingly  tempting  apples  by  slender 
wires.  Two  of  the  boys  were  engaged  in  the  innocent  enter- 
tainment of  extricating  the  apples  without  occasioning  any 
alarm  from  the  bells ;  a  third  was  amusing  himself  at  a  table, 
covered  with  mock  rings  and  trinkets,  in  a  way  that  seemed 
really  surprising ;  with  the  end  of  a  finger  dipped  probably  in 
some  glutinous  matter,  he  just  touched  one  of  the  gew-gaws, 
and  lo,  it  vanished! — vanished  so  magically,  that  the  quickest 
eye  could  scarcely  trace  whither;  sometimes  up  a  cuff,  some- 
times into  a  shoe — here,  there,  anywhere — except  back  again 
upon  the  table.  The  fourth,  an  urchin  apparently  about  five 
years  old ;  he  might  be  much  younger,  judging  from  his  stunted 
size ;  somewhat  older,  judging  from  the  vicious  acuteness  of  his 
face ;  on  the  floor  under  his  father's  chair,  was  diving  his  little 
hand  into  the  paternal  pockets  in  search  for  a  marble,  sportively 
hidden  in  those  capacious  recesses.  On  the  rising  geniuses 
around  him,  Bill  the  cracksman  looked,  and  his  father's  heart 
was  proud. 

Pausing  at  the  threshold,  Grabman  looked  in,  and  said, 
cheerfully:  "Good-day  to  you — good-day  to  you  all,  my  little 
dears." 

"Ah,  Grabman,"  said  Bill,  rising,  and  making  a  bow,  foi 
Bill  valued  himself  much  on  his  politeness;  "come  to  blow  a 
cloud,  eh?  Bob!"  (this  to  the  eldest  born)  "manners,  sir; 
wipe  your  nose,  and  set  a  chair  for  the  gent." 

"Many  thanks  to  you,  Bill,  but  I  can't  stay  now — I  have  a 
long  journey  to  take.  But  bless  my  soul,  how  stupid  I  am ; 
I  have  forgotten  my  clothes-brush.  I  knew  there  was  some- 
thing on  my  mind  all  the  way  I  was  coming  downstairs.  I 
was  saying  to  myself,  'Grabman,  there  is  something  forgotten" !" 

"I  know  what  that  ere  feelin'  is,"  said  Bill  thoughtfully; 
"I  had  it  myself  the  night  afore  last;  and  sure  enough  when  I 
got  to  the — but  that's  neither  here  nor  there.  Bob,  run.  up 
stairs,  and  fetch  down  Mr.  Grabman's  clothes-brush.  'Tis  the 
least  you  can  do  for  a  gent  who  saved  your  father  from  the 
fate  of  them  ere  innocent  apples — your  fist,  Grabman.  I  have 
a  heart  in  my  buzzom ;  cut  me  open,  and  you  will  find  there 
' H alibi  and  Grabman'!  Give  Bob  your  key." 

"The  brush  is  not  in  my  room,"  answered  Grabman;  "it  is 
at  the  top  of  the  house;  up  the  ladder,  in  Beck's  loft — Beck, 
the  sweeper.  The  stupid  dog  always  keeps  it  there,  and  forgot 


250  LUCRETIA. 

to  give  it  me.  Sorry  to  occasion  my  friend  Bob  so  much 
trouble." 

"Bob  has  a  soul  above  trouble ;  his  father's  heart  beats  in 
his  buzzom.  Bob,  track  the  dancers.  Up  like  a  lark — and 
down  like  a  dump." 

Bob  grinned,  made  a  bow  at  Mr.  Grabman,  and  scampered 
up  the  stairs. 

"You  never  attends  our  free-and-easy,"  said  Bill;  "but  we 
toasts  you,  with  three  times  three,  and  up  standing.  'Tis  a 
hungrateful  world!  But  some  men  has  a  heart;  and,  to  those 
who  has  a  heart,  Grabman  is  a  trump!" 

"I  am  sure,  whenever  I  can  do  you  a  service,  you  may 
reckon  on  me.  Meanwhile,  if  you  could  get  that  cursed  bully- 
ing fellow  who  lives  under  me  to  be  a  little  more  civil,  you 
would  oblige  me." 

"Under  you?  No.  7  !  No.  7 — is  it?  Grabman,  h-am  I  a 
man?  Is  this  a  h-arm,  and  this  a  bunch  of  fives?  I  dares 
do  all  that  does  become  a  man ;  but  No.  7  is  a  body-snatcher ! 
No.  7  has  bullied  me — and  I  bore  it !  No.  7  might  whop  me — 
and  this  h-arm  would  let  him  whop!  He  lives  with  graves, 
and  churchyards,  and  stiff  'uns — that  damnable  No.  7!  Ask 
some'at  else,  Grabman.  I  dares  not  touch  No.  7  any  more 
than  the  ghosteses." 

Grabman  sneered  as  he  saw  that  Bill,  stout  as  he  was,  turned 
pale  while  he  spoke ;  but  at  that  moment  Bob  reappeared  with 
the  clothes-brush,  which  the  ex-attorney  thrust  into  his  pocket ; 
and  shaking  Bill  by  the  hand  and  patting  Bob  on  the  head,  he 
set  out  on  his  journey. 

Bill  reseated  himself,  muttering:  "Bully  a  body-snatcher! 
'Drot  that  Grabman,  does  he  want  to  get  rid  of  poor  Bill?" 

Meanwhile  Bob  exhibited  slyly,  to  his  second  brother  the 
sight  of  Beck's  stolen  coral.  The  children  took  care  not  to 
show  it  to  their  father.  They  were  already  inspired  by  the 
laudable  ambition  to  set  up  in  business  on  their  own  account. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

PERCIVAL    VISITS    LUCRETIA. 

HAVING  once  ascertained  the  house  in  which  Helen  lived,  it 
was  no  difficult  matter  for  St.  John  to  learn  the  name  of  the 
guardian  whom  Beck  had  supposed  to  be  her  mother..  No 
common  delight  mingled  with  Percival's  amaze,  when  in  that 
name  he  recognized  one  born  by  h\s  own  kinswoman.  Very 


LUCRETIA.  251 

little,  indeed,  of  the  family  history  was  known  to  him.  Neither 
his  father  nor  his  mother  ever  willingly  conversed  of  the  fallen 
heiress ;  it  was  a  subject  which  the  children  had  felt  to  be  pro- 
scribed; but  in  the  neighborhood,  Percival  had,  of  course, 
heard  some  mention  of  Lucretia,  as  the  haughty  and  accom- 
plished Miss  Clavering,  who  had,  to  the  astonishment  of  all, 
stooped  to  a  mesalliance  with  her  uncle's  French  librarian. 
That  her  loss  of  the  St.  John  property,  the  succession  of  Per- 
cival's  father,  were  unexpected  by  the  villagers  and  squires 
around,  and  perhaps  set  down  to  the  caprice  of  Sir  Miles,  or  to 
an  intellect  impaired  by  apoplectic  attacks,  it  was  not  likely 
that  he  should  have  heard.  The  rich  have  the  polish  of  their 
education,  and  the  poor  that  instinctive  tact  so  wonderful 
amongst  the  agricultural  peasantry,  to  prevent  such  unman- 
nerly disclosures  or  unwelcome  hints;  and  both  by  rich  and 
poor,  the  Vernon  St.  Johns  were  too  popular  and  respected  for 
wanton  allusions  to  subjects  calculated  to  pain  them.  All, 
therefore,  that  Percival  knew  of  his  relation,  was  that  she  had 
resided  from  infancy  with  Sir  Miles ;  that  after  their  uncle's 
death,  she  had  married  an  inferior  in  rank,  of  the  name  of  Dali- 
bard,  and  settled  abroad;  that  she  was  a  person  of  peculiar 
manners;  and,  he  had  heard  somewhere,  of  rare  gifts.  He 
had  been  unable  to  learn  the  name  of  the  young  lady  staying 
with  Madame  Dalibard ;  he  had  learned  only  that  she  went  by 
some  other  name,  and  was  not  the  daughter  of  the  lady  who 
rented  the  house.  Certainly,  it  was  possible  that  this  last 
might  not  be  his  kinswoman,  after  all.  The  name,  though 
strange  to  English  ears,  and  not  common  in  France,  was  no 
sufficient  warrant  for  Percival's  high  spirits  at  the  thought  that 
he  had  now  won  legitimate  and  regular  access  to  the  house — 
still  it  allowed  him  to  call;  it  furnished  a  fair  excuse  for  a  visit. 

How  long  he  was  at  his  toilet  that  day,  poor  boy !  How 
sedulously,  with  comb  and  brush,  he  sought  to  smooth  into 
straight  precision  that  luxuriant  labyrinth  of  jetty  curls,  which 
had  never  cost  him  a  thought  before.  Gil  Bias  says  that  the 
toilet  is  a  pleasure  to  the  young  though  a  labor  to  the  old; 
Percival  St.  John's  toilet  was  no  pleasure  to  him  that  anxious 
morning. 

At  last,  he  tore  himself,  dissatisfied  and  desperate,  from  the 
glass,  caught  his  hat  and  his  whip,  threw  himself  on  his  horse, 
and  rode,  at  first  very  fast  and  at  last  very  slowly,  to  the  old, 
decayed,  shabby,  neglected  house,  that  lay  hid,  like  the  poverty 
of  fallen  pride,  amidst  the  trim  villas  and  smart  cottages  of 
fair  and  flourishing  Brompton. 


252  LUCRETIA. 

The  same  servant  who  had  opened  the  gate  to  Ardworth  ap- 
peared to  his  summons,  and,  after  eyeing  him  for  some  mo- 
ments with  a  listless,  stupid  stare,  said:  "You'll  be  after  some 
mistake!"  and  turned  away. 

"Stop — stop!"  cried  Percival,  trying  to  intrude  himself 
through  the  gate ;  but  the  servant  blocked  up  the  entrance 
sturdily.  "It  is  no  mistake  at  all,  my  good  lady.  I  have 
come  to  see  Madame  Dalibard,  my — my  relation!" 

"Your  relation!"  and  again  the  woman  stared  at  Percival 
with  a  look  through  the  dull  vacancy  of  which  some  distrust 
was  dimly  perceptible.  "Bide  a  bit  there,  and  give  us  your 
name." 

Percival  gave  his  card  to  the  servant,  with  his  sweetest  and 
most  persuasive  smile.  She  took  it  with  one  hand,  and,  with 
the  other,  turned  the  key  in  the  gate,  leaving  Percival  outside. 
It  was  five  minutes  before  she  returned,  and  she  then,  with  the 
same  prim,  smileless  expression  of  countenance  opened  the 
gate,  and  motioned  him  to  follow. 

The  kind-hearted  boy  sighed  as  he  cast  a  glance  at  the  deso- 
late and  poverty-stricken  appearance  of  the  house,  and  thought 
within  himself:  "Ah,  pray  Heaven,  she  may  be  my  relation, 
and  then  I  shall  have  the  right  to  find  her,  and  that  sweet  girl, 
a  very  different  home!"  The  old  woman  threw  open  the 
drawing-room  door,  and  Percival  was  in  the  presence  of  his 
deadliest  foe!  The  arm-chair  was  turned  towards  the  en- 
trance, and  from  amidst  the  coverings  that  hid  the  form,  the 
remarkable  countenance  of  Madame  Dalibard  emerged,  sharp 
and  earnest,  directly  fronting  the  intruder. 

"So,"  she  said,  slowly,  and,  as  it  were,  devouring  him  with 
her  keen,  steadfast  eyes;  "So,  you  are  Percival  St.  John! 
Welcome!  I  did  not  know  that  we  should  ever  meet.  I 
have  not  sought  you — you  seek  me !  Strange — yes,  strange — 
that  the  young  and  the  rich  should  seek  the  suffering  and  the 
poor!" 

Surprised  and  embarassed  by  this  singular  greeting,  Percival 
halted  abruptly  in  the  middle  of  the  room  and  there  was  some- 
thing inexpressibly  winning  in  his  shy,  yet  graceful,  confusion. 
It  seemed,  with  silent  eloquence,  to  apologize  and  to  depre- 
cate. And  when,  in  his  silvery  voice,  scarcely  yet  tuned  to 
the  fullness  of  manhood,  he  said  feelingly:  "Forgive  me, 
madam,  but  my  mother  is  not  in  England," — the  excuse 
evinced  such  delicacy  of  idea,  so  exquisite  a  sense  of  high 
breeding,  that  the  calm  assurance  of  worldly  ease  could  not 
have  more  attested  the  chivalry  of  the  native  gentleman, 


LUCRETIA.  253 

"I  have  nothing  to  forgive,  Mr.  St.  John,"  said  Lucretia, 
with  a  softened  manner.  "Pardon  me  rather  that  my  in- 
firmities do  not  allow  me  to  rise  to  receive  you.  This 
seat — here — next  to  me.  You  have  a  strong  likeness  to  your 
father. ' ' 

Percival  received  this  last  remark  as  a  compliment,  and 
bowed.  Then,  as  he  lifted  his  ingenuous  brow,  he  took,  for  the 
first  time,  a  steady  view  of  his  new-found  relation.  The  pecu» 
liarities  of  Lucretia's  countenance  in  youth  had  naturally 
deepened  with  middle  age.  The  contour,  always  too  sharp 
and  pronounced,  was  now  strong  and  bony  as  a  man's:  the 
line  between  the  eyebrows  was  hollowed  into  a  furrow.  The 
eye  retained  its  old  uneasy,  sinister,  sidelong  glance;  or,  at 
rare  moments  (as  when  Percival  entered),  its  searching  pene- 
tration, and  assured  command ;  but  the  eyelids  themselves,  red 
and  injected,  as  with  grief  or  vigil,  gave  something  haggard  and 
wild,  whether  to  glance  or  gaze.  Despite  the  paralysis  of  the 
frame,  the  face,  though  pale  and  thin,  showed  no  bodily  decay. 
A  vigor  surpassing  the  strength  of  woman  might  still  be  seen 
in  the  play  of  the  bold  muscles,  the  firmness  of  the  contracted 
lips.  What  physicians  call  "vitality"  and  trace  at  once  (if 
experienced)  on  the  physiognomy,  as  the  prognostic  of  long 
life,  undulated  restlessly  in  every  aspect  of  the  face,  every 
movement  of  those  thin,  nervous  hands,  which,  contrasting  the 
rest  of  that  motionless  form,  never  seemed  to  be  at  rest.  The 
teeth  were  still  white  and  regular,  as  in  youth ;  and  when  they 
shone  out  in  speaking,  gave  a  strange,  unnatural  freshness  to 
a  face  otherwise  so  worn. 

As  Percival  gazed,  and,  while  gazing,  saw  those  wandering 
eyes  bent  down,  and  yet/>//  they  watched  him,  a  thrill,  almost 
of  fear,  shot  through  his  heart.  Nevertheless,  so  much  more 
impressionable  was  he  to  charitable  and  trustful,  than  to  sus- 
picious and  timid,  emotions  that,  when  Madame  Dalibard, 
suddenly  looking  up,  and  shaking  her  head  gently,  said,  "You 
see  but  a  sad  wreck,  young  kinsman,"  all  those  instincts, 
which  nature  itself  seemed  to  dictate  for  self-preservation,  van- 
ished into  heavenly  tenderness  and  pity. 

"Ah!"  he  said,  rising  and  pressing  one  of  those  deadly 
hands  in  both  his  own,  while  tears  rose  to  his  eyes.  "Ah! 
sinee  you  call  me  kinsman,  I  have  all  a  kinsman's  privileges. 
You  must  have  the  best  advice — the  most  skilful  surgeons. 
Oh,  you  will  recover — you  must  not  despond." 

Lucretia's  lips  moved  uneasily.  This  kindness  took  her  by 
surprise.  She  turned  desperately  away  from  the  human  gleam 


254  LUCRETIA. 

that  shot  across  the  sevenfold  gloom  of  her  soul:  "Do  not 
think  of  me,"  she  said,  with  a  forced  smile:  "it  is  my  peculiar- 
ity not  to  like  allusion  to  myself,  though  this  time  I  provoked 
it.  Speak  to  me  of  the  old  cedar  trees  at  Laughton — do  they 
stand  still?  You  are  the  master  of  Laughton,  now:  it  is  a 
noble  heritage!" 

Then  St.  John,  thinking  to  please  her,  talked  of  the  old 
manor-house,  described  the  improvements  made  by  his  father, 
spoke  gayly  of  those  which  he  himself  contemplated  ;  and  as  he 
ran  on,  Lucretia's  brow,  a  moment  ruffled,  grew  smooth  and 
smoother,  and  the  gloom  settled  back  upon  her  soul. 

All  at  once,  she  interrupted  him.  "How  did  you  discover 
me — was  it  through  Mr.  Varney?  I  bade  him  not  mention 
me — yet  how  else  could  you  learn?"  As  she  spoke,  there  was 
an  anxious  trouble  in  her  tone,  which  increased,  while  she 
observed  that  St.  John  looked  confused. 

"Why,"  he  began  hesitatingly,  and  brushing  his  hat  with  his 
hand;  "Why — perhaps  you  may  have  heard  from  the — that 
is — I  think  there  is  a  young — Ah,  it  is  you — it  is  you!  I  see 
you  once  again!"  And  springing  up,  he  was  at  the  side  of 
Helen,  who  at  that  instant  had  entered  the  room,  and 
now,  her  eyes  downcast,  her  cheeks  blushing,  her  breast 
gently  heaving,  heard,  but  answered  not,  that  passionate  burst 
of  joy. 

Startled,  Madame  Dalibard  (her  hands  grasping  the  sides  of 
her  chair)  contemplated  the  two.  She  had  heard  nothing, 
guessed  nothing,  of  their  former  meeting.  All  that  had  passed 
before  between  them  was  unknown  to  her.  Yet,  there,  was 
evidence  unmistakable,  conclusive — the  son  of  her  despoiler 
loved  the  daughter  of  her  rival,  and — if  the  virgin  heart  speaks 
by  the  outward  sign — those  downcast  eyes,  those  blushing 
cheeks,  that  heaving  breast,  told  that  he  did  not  love  in 
vain ! 

Before  her  lurid  and  murderous  gaze,  as  if  to  defy  her,  the 
two  inheritors  of  a  revenge  unglutted  by  the  grave  stood, 
united  mysteriously  together.  Up,  from  the  vast  ocean  of  her 
hate  rose  that  poor  isle  of  love;  there,  unconscious  of  the 
horror  around  them,  the  victims  found  their  footing!  How 
beautiful  at  that  hour  their  youth,  their  very  ignorance  of  their 
own  emotions,  their  innocent  gladness,  their  sweet  trouble! 
The  fell  gazer  drew  a  long  breath  of  fiend-like  complacency 
and  glee,  and  her  hands  opened  wide,  and  then  slowly  closed, 
as  if  she  felt  them  in  her  grasp. 


LUCRETIA.  255 

CHAPTER  IX. 

THE    ROSE    BENEATH    THE    UPAS. 

AND  from  that  day,  Percival  had  his  privileged  entry  into 
Madame  Dalibard's  house.  The  little  narrative  of  the  circum- 
stances connected  with  his  first  meeting  with  Helen,  partly 
drawn  from  Percival,  partly  afterwards  from  Helen  (with 
blushing  and  faltered  excuses  from  the  latter,  for  not  having 
mentioned  before  an  incident  that  might,  perhaps  needlessly, 
vex  or  alarm  her  aunt  in  so  delicate  a  state  of  health).  *<vas 
received  by  Lucretia  with  rare  graciousness.  The  connec- 
tion, not  only  between  herself  and  Percival,  but  between  Per- 
cival and  Helen,  was  allowed,  and  even  dwelt  upon  by  Ma- 
dame Dalibard,  as  a  natural  reason  for  permitting  the  artless 
intimacy  which  immediately  sprang  up  between  these  young 
persons.  She  permitted  Percival  to  call  daily,  to  remain  for 
hours,  to  share  in  their  simple  meals,  to  wander  alone  with 
Helen  in  the  garden,  assist  her  to  bind  up  the  ragged  flowers, 
and  sit  by  her  in  the  old  ivy-grown  arbor,  when  their  work 
was  done.  She  affected  to  look  upon  them  both  as  children, 
and  to  leave  to  them  that  happy  familiarity  which  childhood 
only  sanctions,  and  compared  to  which  the  affection  of  maturer 
years  seems  at  once  coarse  and  cold. 

As  they  grew  more  familiar,  the  differences  and  similarities 
in  their  characters  came  out,  and  nothing  more  delightful  than 
the  harmony  into  which  even  the  contrasts  blended,  ever  in- 
vited the  guardian  angel  to  pause  and  smile.  As  flowers  in 
some  trained  parterre  relieve  each  other,  now  softening,  now 
heightening  each  several  hue,  till  all  unite  in  one  concord  of 
interwoven  beauty,  so  these  two  blooming  natures,  brought 
together,  seemed,  where  varying  still,  to  melt  and  fuse  their 
affluences  into  one  wealth  of  innocence  and  sweetness.  Both 
had  a  native  buoyancy  and  cheerfulness  of  spirit,  a  noble  trust- 
fulness in  others,  a  singular  candor  and  freshness  of  mind 
and  feeling.  But  beneath  thegayety  of  Helen,  there  was  a  soft 
and  holy  under-stream  of  thoughtful  melancholy,  a  high  and 
religious  sentiment  that  vibrated  more  exquisitely  to  the  subtle 
mysteries  of  creation — the  solemn  unison  between  the  bright 
world  without,  and  the  grave  destinies  of  that  world  within, 
(which  is  an  imperishable  soul) — than  the  lighter  and  more 
vivid  youthfulness  of  Percival  had  yet  conceived.  In  him 
lay  the  germs  of  the  active  mortal,  who  might  win  distinction 
in  the  bold  car/^r  we  run  upon  the  surface  of  the  earth.  In 


256  LUCRETIA, 

her,  there  was  that  finer  and  more  spiritual  essence  which  lifts 
the  poet  to  the  golden  atmosphere  of  dreams,  and  reveals  in 
glimpses  to  the  saint  the  choral  Populace  of  Heaven.  We  do 
not  say  that  Helen  would  ever  have  found  the  utterance  of  the 
poet,  that  her  reveries,  undefined  and  unanalyzed,  could  have 
taken  the  sharp,  clear  form  of  words.  For  to  the  poet,  practi- 
cally developed  and  made  manifest  to  the  world,  many  other 
gifts,  besides  the  mere  poetic  sense,  are  needed ;  stern  study, 
and  logical  generalization  of  scattered  truths,  and  patient  ob- 
servation of  the  characters  of  men,  and  the  wisdom  that 
comes  from  sorrow  and  passion,  and  a  sage's  experience  of 
things  actual,  embracing  the  dark  secrets  of  human  infirmity 
and  crime.  But,  despite  all  that  has  been  said  in  disparage- 
ment or  disbelief  of  "mute  inglorious  Miltons, "  we  maintain 
that  there  are  natures  in  which  the  divinest  element  of  poetry 
exists,  the  purer  and  more  delicate  for  escaping  from  bodily 
form,  and  evaporating  from  the  coarser  vessels  into  which  the 
poet,  so  called,  must  pour  the  ethereal  fluid.  There  is  a  cer- 
tain virtue  within  us,  comprehending  our  subtlest  and  noblest 
emotions,  which  is  poetry  while  untold,  and  grows  pale  and  poor 
in  proportion  as  we  strain  it  into  poems.  Nay,  it  may  be  said 
of  this  airy  property  of  our  inmost  being,  that,  more  or  less, 
it  departs  from  us,  according  as  we  give  it  forth  into  the  world, 
even  as  only  by  the  loss  of  its  particles  the  rose  wastes  its 
perfume  on  the  air.  So  this  more  spiritual  sensibility  dwelt  in 
Helen,  as  the  latent  mesmerism  in  water,  as  the  invisible  fairy 
in  an  enchanted  ring.  It  was  an  essence  of  divinity,  shrined 
and  shrouded  in  herself,  which  gave  her  more  intimate  and 
vital  union  with  all  the  influences  of  the  universe,  a  companion 
to  her  loneliness,  an  angel  hymning  low  to  her  own  listening 
soul.  This  made  her  enjoyment  of  nature,  in  its  merest  trifles, 
exquisite  and  profound ;  this  gave  to  her  tenderness  of  heart 
all  the  delicious  and  sportive  variety  love  borrows  from  imag- 
ination ;  this  lifted  her  piety  above  the  mere  forms  of  conven- 
tional religion,  and  breathed  into  her  prayers  the  ecstacy  of  the 
saint. 

But  Helen  was  not  the  less  filled  with  the  sweet  humanities 
of  her  age  and  sex ;  her  very  gravity  was  tinged  with  rosy  light 
as  a  western  cloud  with  the  sun.  She  had  sportiveness,  and 
caprice,  and  even  whim,  as  the  butterfly,  though  the  emblem  of 
the  soul,  still  flutters  wantonly  over  every  wild  flower,  and  ex- 
pands its  glowing  wings  on  the  sides  of  the  beaten  road.  And 
with  a  sense  of  weakness  in  the  common  world  (growing  out  of 
her  very  strength  in  nobler  atmospheres),  she  leaned  the  more 


LUCRETIA.  257 

trustfully  on  the  strong  arm  of  her  young  adorer;  not  fancying 
that  the  differences  between  them  arose  from  superiority  in 
her,  but  rather  as  a  bird  once  tamed  flies  at  the  sight  of  the 
hawk  to  the  breast  of  its  owner ;  so  from  each  airy  flight  into 
the  loftier  heaven,  let  but  the  thought  of  danger  daunt  her 
wing,  and,  as  in  a  more  powerful  nature,  she  took  refuge  on 
that  fostering  heart. 

The  love  between  these  children,  for  so,  if  not  literally  in 
years,  in  their  newness  to  all  that  steals  the  freshness  and  the 
dew  from  maturer  life,  they  may  be  rightly  called,  was  such  as 
befitted  those  whose  souls  have  not  forfeited  the  Eden.  It  was 
more  like  the  love  of  fairies  than  of  human  beings.  They 
showed  it  to  each  other,  innocently  and  frankly ;  yet  of  love, 
as  we  of  the  grosser  creation  call  it,  with  its  impatient  pains, 
and  burning  hopes,  they  never  spoke  nor  dreamed.  It  was  an 
unutterable,  ecstatic  fondness;  a  clinging  to  each  other — in 
thought,  desire,  and  heart — a  joy  more  than  mortal  in  each 
other's  presence;  yet,  in  parting,  not  that  idle  and  empty  sor- 
row which  unfits  the  weak  for  the  homelier  demands  on  time 
and  life.  And  this,  because  of  the  wondrous  trust  in  them- 
selves and  in  the  future,  which  made  a  main  part  of  their  cred- 
ulous, happy  natures.  Neither  felt  fear  nor  jealousy;  or  if 
jealousy  came,  it  was  the  pretty  child-like  jealousies  which  have 
no  sting;  of  the  bird,  if  Helen  listened  to  its  note  too  long;  of 
the  flower,  if  Percival  left  Helen's  side  too  quickly,  to  tie  up 
its  drooping  petals,  or  refresh  its  dusty  leaves.  Close  by  the 
stir  of  the  great  city,  with  all  its  fret,  and  chafe,  and  storm  of 
life,  in  the  desolate  garden  of  that  sombre  house,  and  under 
the  withering  eyes  of  relentless  Crime,  revived  the  Arcady  of 
old — the  scene  vocal  to  the  reeds  of  idyllist  and  shepherd; 
and  in  the  midst  of  the  iron  Tragedy,  harmlessly  and  uncon- 
sciously arose  the  strain  of  the  Pastoral  Music. 

It  would  be  a  vain  effort  to  describe  the  state  of  Lucretia's 
mind,  while  she  watched  the  progress  of  the  affection  she  had 
favored,  and  gazed  on  the  spectacle  of  the  fearless  happiness 
she  had  promoted.  The  image  of  a  felicity  at  once  so  great 
and  so  holy,  wore  to  her  gloomy  sight  the  aspect  of  a  mocking 
Fury.  It  rose  in  contrast  to  her  own  ghastly  and  crime-stained 
life;  it  did  not  upbraid  her  conscience  with  guilt  so  loudly  as  it 
scoffed  at  her  intellect  for  folly.  These  children,  playing  on 
the  verge  of  life,  how  much  more  of  life's  true  secret  did  they 
already  know,  than  she,  with  all  her  vast  native  powers  and 
wasted  realms  of  blackened  and  charred  experience?  For 
what  had  she  studied,  and  schemed,  and  calculated,  and  toiled, 


258  LUCRETIA. 

and  sinned?  As  a  conqueror  stricken  unto  death  would  render 
up  all  the  regions  vanquished  by  his  sword  for  one  drop  of 
water  to  his  burning  lips,  how  gladly  would  she  have  given  all 
the  knowledge  bought  with  blood  and  fire,  to  feel  one  moment 
as  those  children  felt!  Then,  from  out  her  silent  and  grim 
despair  stood  forth,  fierce  and  prominent,  the  great  fiend, 
Revenge. 

By  a  monomania  not  uncommon  to  those  who  have  made 
self  the  centre  of  being,  Lucretia  referred  to  her  own  sullen 
history  of  wrong  and  passion,  all  that  bore  analogy  to  it,  how- 
ever distant.  She  had  never  been  enabled,  without  an  intolera- 
ble pang  of  hate  and  envy,  to  contemplate  courtship  and  love 
in  others.  From  the  rudest  shape  to  the  most  refined — that 
master-passion  in  the  existence,  at  least,  of  woman — reminding 
her  of  her  own  brief  episode  of  human  tenderness  and  devo- 
tion, opened  every  wound,  and  wrung  every  fibre  of  a  heart 
that,  while  crime  had  indurated  it  to  most  emotions,  memory 
still  left  morbidly  sensitive  to  one.  But  if  tortured  by  the  sight 
of  love  in  those  who  had  no  connection  with  her  fate ;  who 
stood  apart  from  her  lurid  orbit,  and  were  gazed  upon  only  afar 
(as  a  lost  soul,  from  the  abyss,  sees  the  gleam  of  angels'  wings 
within  some  planet  it  never  has  explored),  how  ineffably  more 
fierce  and  intolerable  was  the  wrath  that  seized  her,  when,  in 
her  haunted  imagination,  she  saw  all  Susan's  rapture  at  the 
vows  of  Mainwaring  mantling  in  Helen's  face!  All  that  might 
have  disarmed  a  heart  as  hard,  but  less  diseased,  less  preoc- 
cupied by  revenge,  only  irritated  more  the  consuming  hate  of 
that  inexorable  spirit.  Helen's  seraphic  purity,  her  exquisite 
overflowing  kindness,  ever  forgetting  self,  her  airy  cheerfulness, 
even  her  very  moods  of  melancholy,  calm  and  seemingly  cause- 
less as  they  were,  perpetually  galled  and  blistered  that  writhing 
preternatural  susceptibility  which  is  formed  by  the  conscious- 
ness of  infamy,  the  dreary  egotism  of  one  cut  off  from  the  chari- 
ties of  the  world,  with  whom  all  mirth  is  sardonic  convulsion, 
all  sadness,  rayless,  and  unresigned  despair. 

Of  the  two,  Percival  inspired  her  with  feelings  the  most  akin 
to  humanity.  For  him,  despite  her  bitter  memories  of  his 
father,  she  felt  something  of  compassion,  and  shrunk  from  the 
touch  of  his  frank  hand  in  remorse.  She  had  often  need  to 
whisper  to  herself,  that  his  life  was  an  obstacle  to  the  heritage 
of  the  son ;  of  whom,  as  we  have  seen,  she  was  in  search,  and 
whom,  indeed,  she  believed  she  had  already  found  in  }ohn 
Ardworth ;  that  it  was  not  in  wrath  and  in  vengeance  that  this 
victim  was  to  be  swept  into  the  grave,  but  as  an  indispensable 


LUCRET1A.  259 

sacrifice  to  a  cherished  object — a  determined  policy.  As  in 
the  studies  of  her  youth,  she  had  adopted  the  Machiavelism  of 
ancient  statecraft  as  a  rule  admissible  in  private  life,  so  she 
seemed  scarcely  to  admit  as  a  crime  that  which  was  but  the  re- 
moval of  a  barrier  between  her  aim  and  her  end.  Before  she 
had  become  personally  acquainted  with  Percival,  she  had  re- 
jected all  occasion  to  know  him.  She  had  suffered  Varney  to 
call  upon  him,  as  the  old  protege  of  Sir  Miles,  and  to  wind  into 
his  intimacy,  meaning  to  leave  to  her  accomplice,  when  the 
hour  should  arrive,  the  dread  task  of  destruction.  This,  not 
from  cowardice,  for  Gabriel  had  once  rightly  described  her 
when  he  said,  that  "if  she  lived  with  shadows  she  could  quell 
them,"  but  simply  because,  more  intellectually  unsparing  than 
constitutionally  cruel  (save  where  the  old  vindictive  memories 
thoroughly  unsexed  her),  this  was  a  victim  whose  pangs  she  de- 
sired not  to  witness,  over  whose  fate  it  was  no  luxury  to  gloat 
and  revel.  She  wished  not  to  see,  nor  to  know  him  living,  only 
to  learn  that  he  was  no  more,  and  that  Helen  alone  stood  be- 
tween Laughton  and  her  son.  Now  that  he  had  himself,  as  if 
with  predestined  feet,  crossed  her  threshold,  that  he,  like  Helen, 
had  delivered  himself  into  her  toils,  the  hideous  guilt,  before 
removed  from  her  hands,  became  haunting,  fronted  her  face 
to  face,  and  filled  her  with  a  superstitious  awe. 

Meanwhile,  her  outward  manner  to  both  her  meditated  vic- 
tims, if  moody  and  fitful  at  times,  was  not  such  as  would  have 
provoked  suspicion  even  in  less  credulous  hearts.  From  the 
first  entry  of  Helen  under  her  roof,  she  had  been  formal  and 
measured  in  her  welcome;  kept  her,  as  it  were,  aloof,  and  af- 
fected no  prodigal  superfluity  of  dissimulation ;  but  she  had 
never  been  positively  harsh  or  unkind  in  word  or  in  deed,  and 
had  coldly  excused  herself  for  the  repulsiveness  of  her  manner. 

"I  am  irritable,"  she  said,  "from  long  suffering;  I  am  un- 
social from  habitual  solitude ;  do  not  expect  from  me  the  fond- 
ness and  warmth  that  should  belong  to  our  relationship.  Do 
not  harass  yourself  with  vain  solicitude  for  one  whom  all  seem- 
ing attention  but  reminds  more  painfully  of  infirmity,  and  who, 
even  thus  stricken  down,  would  be  independent  of  all  cares  not 
bought  and  paid  for.  Be  satisfied  to  live  here  in  all  reasonable 
liberty,  to  follow  your  own  habits  and  caprices  uncontrolled. 
Regard  me  but  as  a  piece  of  necessary  furniture.  You  can  never 
displease  me,  but  when  you  notice  that  I  live  and  suffer." 

If  Helen  wept  bitterly  at  these  hard  words  when  first  spoken, 
it  was  not  with  anger  that  her  loving  heart  was  so  thrown  back 
upon  herself.  On  the  contrary,  she  became  inspired  with  a  com- 


26d  LUCRETIA. 

passion  so  great  that  it  took  the  character  of  reverence.  She 
regarded  this  very  coldness  as  a  mournful  dignity.  She  felt 
grateful  that  one  who  could  thus  dispense  with,  should  yet  have 
sought,  her.  She  had  heard  her  mother  say  that  "she  had  been 
under  great  obligations  to  Lucretia,"  and  now,  when  she  was 
forbidden  to  repay  them,  even  by  a  kiss  on  those  weary  eyelids, 
a  daughter's  hand  to  that  sleepless  pillow ;  when  she  saw  that 
the  barrier  first  imposed  was  irremovable,  that  no  time  dimin- 
ished the  distance  her  aunt  set  between  them  ;  that  the  least  ap- 
proach to  the  tenderness  of  service  beyond  the  most  casual  offices, 
really  seemed  but  to  fret  those  excitable  nerves,  and  fever  the 
hand,  that  she  ventured  timorously  to  clasp;  she  retreated  into 
herself  with  a  sad  amaze  that  increased  her  pity,  and  heightened 
her  respect.  To  her,  love  seemed  so  necessary  a  tiling  in  the 
helplessness  of  human  life,  even  when  blessed  with  health  and 
youth,  that  this  rejection  of  all  love  in  one  so  bowed  and 
crippled  struck  her  imagination  as  something  sublime  in,  its 
dreary  grandeur  and  stoic  pride  of  independence.  She  regarded 
it,  as  of  old  a  tender  and  pious  nun  would  have  regarded  the 
asceticism  of  some  sanctified  recluse — as  Teresa  (had  she  lived 
in  the  same  age)  might  have  regarded  St.  Simon  Stylites  exist- 
ing aloft  from  human  sympathy  on  the  roofless  summit  of  his 
column  of  stone ;  and  with  this  feeling  she  sought  to  inspire  Per- 
cival.  He  had  the  heart  to  enter  into  her  compassion,  but  not 
the  imagination  to  sympathize  with  her  reverence.  Even  the 
repugnant  awe  that  he  had  first  conceived  for  Madame  Dali- 
bard,  so  bold  was  he  by  temperament,  he  had  long  since  cast 
off;  he  recognized  only  the  moroseness  and  petulance  of  an 
habitual  invalid,  and  shook  playfully  his  glossy  curls,  when 
Helen,  with  her  sweet  seriousness,  insisted  on  his  recognizing 
more. 

To  this  house  few,  indeed,  were  the  visitors  admitted.  The 
Mivers's,  whom  the  benevolent  officiousness  of  Mr.  Fielden 
had  originally  sent  thither  to  see  their  young  kinswoman,  now 
and  then  came  to  press  Helen  to  join  some  party  to  the  theatre, 
or  Vauxhall,  or  a  picnic  in  Richmond  Park;  but  when  they 
found  their  overtures,  which  had  at  first  been  politely  accepted 
by  Madame  Dalibard,  were  rejected,  they  gradually  ceased  their 
visits,  wounded  and  indignant. 

Certain  it  was,  that  Lucretia  had,  at  one  time,  eagerly  caught 
at  their  well-meant  civilities  to  Helen ;  now  she  as  abruptly  de- 
clined them.  Why?  It  would  be  hard  to  plumb  into  all  the 
black  secrets  of  that  heart.  It  would  have  been  but  natural  to 
her,  who  shrank  from  dooming  Helen  to  no  worse  calamity  than 


LUCRETIA.  261 

a.  virgin's  grave,  to  have  designed  to  throw  her  in  such  uncon- 
genial guidance,  amidst  all  the  manifold  temptations  of  the  cor- 
rupt city ;  to  have  suffered  her  to  be  seen  and  to  be  ensnared 
by  those  gallants  ever  on  the  watch  for  defenceless  beauty ;  and 
to  contrast  with  their  elegance  of  mien,  and  fatal  flatteries,  the 
grossness  of  the  companions  selected  for  her,  and  the  unloving 
discomfort  of  the  home  into  which  she  had  been  thrown.  But 
now  that  St.  John  had  appeared;  that  Helen's  heart  and  fancy 
were  steeled  alike  against  more  dangerous  temptation,  the  ob- 
ject to  be  obtained  from  the  pressing  courtesy  of  Mrs.  Mivers  ex- 
isted no  more.  The  vengeance  flowed  into  other  channels. 

The  only  other  visitors  at  the  house  were  John  Ardworth  and 
Gabriel  Varney. 

Madame  Dalibard  watched  vigilantly  the  countenance  and 
manner  of  Ardworth,  when,  after  presenting  him  to  Percival, 
she  whispered:  "I  am  glad  you  assured  me  as  to  your  senti- 
ments for  Helen.  She  has  found  ther-e  the  lover  you  wished  for 
her — gay  and  handsome  as  herself." 

And,  in  the  sudden  paleness  that  overspread  Ardworth's 
face,  in  his  compressed  lips,  and  convulsive  start,  she  read  with 
unspeakable  rage  the  untold  secret  of  his  heart — till  the  rage 
gave  way  to  complacency  at  the  thought  that  the  last  insult  to 
her  wrongs  was  spared  her;  that  her  son  (as  son  she  believed 
he  was  )  could  not  now,  at  least,  be  the  successful  suitor  of  her 
loathed  sister's  loathed  child.  Her  discovery,  perhaps,  con- 
firmed her  in  her  countenance  to  Percival's  progressive  wooing, 
and  half  reconciled  her  to  the  pangs  it  inflicted  on  herself. 

At  the  first  introduction,  Ardworth  had  scarcely  glanced  at 
Percival.  He  regarded  him  but  as  the  sleek  flutterer  in  the 
sunshine  of  fortune.  And  for  the  idle,  the  gay,  the  fair,  the 
well  drest,  and  wealthy,  the  sturdy  workman  of  his  own  rough 
way  felt  something  of  the  uncharitable  disdain  which  the  labori- 
ous have  nots  too  usually  entertain  for  the  prosperous  haves, 
But  the  moment  the  unwelcome  intelligence  of  Madame  Dali- 
bard was  conveyed  to  him,  the  smooth-faced  boy  swelled  into 
dignity  and  importance. 

Yet  it  was  not  merely  as  a  rival  that  that  strong  manly  heart, 
after  the  first  natural  agony,  regarded  Percival.  No,  he  looked 
upon  him  less  with  anger  than  with  interest,  as  the  one  in  whom 
Helen's  happiness  was  henceforth  to  be  invested.  And  to 
Madame  Dalibard's  astonishment,  for  this  nature  was  wholly 
new  to  her  experience,  she  saw  him,  even  in  that  first  interview, 
composing  his  rough  face  to  smiles,  smoothing  his  bluff  imperi- 
<?us  accents  into  courtesy,  listening  patiently,  watching  benign* 


262  LUCRETIA. 

Iy,  and  at  last  thrusting  his  large  hand  frankly  forth,  griping 
Percival's  slender  fingers  in  his  own ;  and  then,  with  an  indis- 
tinct chuckle,  that  seemed  half-laugh  and  half-groan,  as  if  he 
did  not  dare  to  trust  himself  farther,  he  made  his  wonted  un- 
ceremonious nod,  and  strode  hurriedly  from  the  room. 

But  he  came  again,  and  again,  almost  daily,  for  about  a  fort- 
night; sometimes,  without  entering  the  house,  he  would  join 
the  young  people  in  the  garden,  assist  them  with  awkward  hands 
in  their  playful  work  on  the  garden,  or  sit  with  them  in  the  ivied 
bower;  and,  warming  more  and  more  each  time  he  came,  talk 
at  last  with  the  cordial  frankness  of  an  elder  brother.  There 
was  no  disguise  in  this — he  began  to  love  Percival;  what  would 
seem  more  strange  to  the  superficial,  to  admire  him.  Genius 
has  a  quick  perception  of  the  moral  qualities ;  genius  which, 
differing  thus  from  mere  talent,  is  more  allied  to  the  heart  than 
to  the  head,  sympathizes  genially  with  goodness.  Ardworth 
respected  that  young,  ingenuous,  unpolluted  mind:  he  himself 
felt  better  and  purer  in  its  atmosphere.  Much  of  the  affec- 
tion he  cherished  for  Helen  passed  thus  beautifully  and  nobly 
into  his  sentiments  for  the  one  whom  Helen  not  unworthily  pre- 
ferred. And  they  grew  so  fond  of  him !  As  the  young  and 
gentle  ever  will  grow  fond  of  genius — however  rough — once 
admitted  to  its  companionship! 

Percival,  by  this  time,  had  recalled  to  his  mind  where  he  had 
first  seen  that  strong-featured,  dark-browed  countenance,  and 
he  gayly  reminded  Ardworth  of  his  discourtesy,  on  the  brow  of 
the  hill  which  commanded  the  view  of  London.  That  reminis- 
cence made  his  new  friend  writhe ;  for  then,  amidst  all  his  am- 
bitious visions  of  the  future,  he  had  seen  Helen  in  the  dis- 
tance— the  reward  of  every  labor,  the  fairest  star  in  his  horizon. 
But  he  strove  stoutly  against  the  regret  of  the  illusion  lost;  the 
vivendi  causes  were  left  him  still,  and  for  the  nymph  that  had 
glided  from  his  clasp,  he  clung  at  least  to  the  laurel  that  was 
left  in  her  place.  In  the  folds  of  his  robust  fortitude,  Ard- 
worth thus  wrapped  his  secret.  Neither  of  his  young  play- 
mates suspected  it.  He  would  have  disdained  himself  if  he 
had  so  poisoned  their  pleasure.  That  he  suffered  when  alone, 
much  and  bitterly,  is  not  to  be  denied ;  but  in  that  masculine 
and  complete  being,  Love  took  its  legitimate  rank,  amidst  the 
passions  and  cares  of  man.  It  soured  no  existence,  it  broke  no 
heart;  the  wind  swept  some  blossoms  from  the  bough,  and 
tossed  wildly  the  agitated  branches  from  root  to  summit,  but 
the  trunk  stood  firm. 

In  some  of  these  visits  to  Madame  Palibard's,  Ardworth  re,- 


LUCRETIA.  263 

Hewed  with  her  the  more  private  conversation  which  had  so  un- 
settled his  past  convictions  as  to  his  birth,  and  so  disturbed  the 
calm,  strong  currents  of  his  mind.  He  was  chiefly  anxious  to 
learn  what  conjectures  Madame  Dalibard  had  formed  as  to  his 
parentage,  and  what  ground  there  was  for  belief  that  he  was 
near  in  blood  to  herself,  or  that  he  was  born  to  a  station  less 
dependent  on  continuous  exertion ;  but  on  these  points  the 
dark  sibyl  preserved  an  obstinate  silence.  She  was  satisfied 
with  the  hints  she  had  already  thrown  out  and  absolutely  re- 
fused to  say  more  till  better  authorized  by  the  inquiries  she  had 
set  on  foot.  Artfully  she  turned  from  these  topics  of  closer 
and  more  household  interest,  to  those  on  which  she  had  pre- 
viously insisted — connected  with  the  general  knowledge  of  man- 
kind, and  the  complicated  science  of  practical  life.  To  fire  his 
genius,  wing  his  energies,  inflame  his  ambition  above  that  slow, 
laborious  drudgery  to  which  he  had  linked  the  chances  of  his 
career,  and  which  her  fiery  and  rapid  intellect  was  wholly  un- 
able to  comprehend,  save  as  a  waste  of  life  for  uncertain  and 
distant  objects,  became  her  task.  And  she  saw  with  delight 
that  Ardworth  listened  to  her  more  assentingly  than  he  had  done 
at  first.  In  truth,  the  pain  shut  within  his  heart,  the  conflict 
waged  keenly  between  his  reason  and  his  passion,  unfitted  him,  for 
the  time,  for  mere  mechanical  employment,  in  which  his  genius 
could  afford  him  no  consolation.  Now,  genius  is  given  toman, 
not  only  to  enlighten  others,  but  to  comfort  as  well  as  to  elevate 
himself.  Thus,  in  all  the  sorrows  of  actual  existence,  the  man 
is  doubly  inclined  to  turn  to  his  genius  for  distraction.  Har- 
assed in  this  world  of  action,  he  knocks  at  the  gate  of  that 
world  of  idea  or  fancy  which  he  is  privileged  to  enter;  he  es- 
capes from  the  clay  to  the  spirit.  And  rarely,  till  some  great 
grief  comes,  does  the  man  in  whom  the  celestial  fire  is  lodged 
know  all  the  gift  of  which  he  is  possessed.  At  last,  Ard worth's 
visits  ceased  abruptly.  He  shut  himself  up  once  more  in  his 
chambers ;  but  the  law  books  were  laid  aside. 

Varney,  who  generally  contrived  to  call  when  Ardworth  was 
not  there,  seldom  interrupted  the  lovers  in  their  little  paradise 
of  the  garden ;  but  he  took  occasion  to  ripen  and  cement  his 
intimacy  with  Percival:  sometimes  walked,  or  (if  St.  John  had 
his  cabriolet)  drove  home  and  dined  with  him,  t$te-&-'tete  in 
Curzon  Street;  and  as  he  made  Helen  his  chief  subject  of  con- 
versation, Percival  could  not  but  esteem  him  amongst  the  most 
agreeable  of  men.  With  Helen,  when  Percival  was  not  there, 
Varney  held  some  secret  conferences — secret  even  from  Percival; 
two  or  three  times,  before  the  hour  in  which  Percival  was  ac^ 


264  LUCRETIA. 

customed  to  come,  they  had  been  out  together:  and  Helen's 
face  looked  more  cheerful  than  usual  on  their  return.  It  was 
not  surprising  that  Gabriel  Varney,  so  displeasing  to  a  man 
like  Ardworth,  should  have  won  little  less  favor  with  Helen 
than  with  Percival ;  for,  to  say  nothing  of  an  ease  and  suavity 
of  manner  which  stole  into  the  confidence  of  those  in  whom  to 
confide  was  a  natural  propensity,  his  various  acquisitions  and 
talents,  imposing,  from  the  surface  over  which  they  spread,  and 
the  glitter  which  they  made,  had  an  inevitable  effect  upon  a 
mind  so  susceptible  as  Helen's  to  admiration  for  art  and  respect 
for  knowledge.  But  what  chiefly  conciliated  her  to  Varney, 
whom  she  regarded,  moreover,  as  her  aunt's  most  intimate 
friend,  was  that  she  was  persuaded  he  was  unhappy,  and  wronged 
by  the  world  or  fortune.  Varney  had  a  habit  of  so  represent- 
ing himself;  of  dwelling  with  a  bitter  eloquence — which  his 
natural  malignity  made  forcible — on  the  injustice  of  the  world 
to  superior  intellect.  He  was  a  great  accuser  of  Fate.  It  is 
the  illogical  weakness  of  some  evil  natures  to  lay  all  their 
crimes,  and  the  consequences  of  crime,  upon  Destiny.  There 
was  a  heat,  a  vigor,  a  rush  of  words,  and  a  readiness  of  strong, 
if  trite,  imagery  in  what  Varney  said,  that  deceived  the  young 
into  the  monstrous  error  that  he  was  an  enthusiast — misan- 
thropical, perhaps,  but  only  so  from  enthusiasm.  How  could 
Helen,  whose  slightest  thought,  when  a  star  broke  forth  from 
the  cloud,  or  a  bird  sung  suddenly  from  the  copse,  had  more 
of  wisdom  and  of  poetry  than  all  Varney's  gaudy  and  painted 
seemings  ever  could  even  mimic — how  could  she  be  so  de- 
ceived? Yet  so  it  was.  Here  stood  a  man  whose  youth  she 
supposed  had  been  devoted  to  refinement  and  elevating  pursuits, 
gifted,  neglected,  disappointed,  solitary,  and  unhappy.  She 
saw  little  beyond.  You  had  but  to  touch  her  pity  to  win  her 
interest,  and  to  excite  her  trust.  Of  anything  farther,  even  had 
Percival  never  existed,  she  could  not  have  dreamed.  It  was  be- 
cause a  secret  and  undefinable  repugnance,  in  the  midst  of  pity, 
trust,  and  friendship,  put  Varney  altogether  out  of  the  light  of 
a  possible  lover,  that  all  those  sentiments  were  so  easily  kindled. 
This  repugnance  arose  not  from  the  disparity  between  their  years; 
it  was  rather  that  nameless  uncongeniality,  which  does  not  for- 
bid friendship  but  is  irreconcilable  with  love.  To  do  Varney 
justice,  he  never  offered  to  reconcile  the  two.  Not  for  love 
did  he  secretly  confer  with  Helen ;  not  for  love  did  his  heart 
beat  against  the  hand  which  reposed  so  carelessly  on  his  mur- 
tferous  arm, 


LtickETiA.  2165 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE    RATTLE    OF    THE    SNAKE. 

THE  progress  of  affection  between  natures  like  those  of  Per- 
cival  and  Helen,  favored  by  free  and  constant  intercourse,  was 
naturally  rapid.  It  was  scarcely  five  weeks  from  the  day  he 
had  first  seen  Helen,  and  he  already  regarded  her  as  his 
plighted  bride.  During  the  earlier  days  of  his  courtship,  Per- 
cival,  enamoured  and  absorbed  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  did 
not  hasten  to  make  his  mother  the  confidante  of  his  happiness. 
He  had  written  but  twice;  and  though  he  said  briefly,  in  the 
second  letter,  that  he  had  discovered  two  relations,  both  inter- 
esting, and  one  charming,  he  had  deferred  naming  them,  or 
entering  into  detail.  This,  not  alone  from  that  indescribable 
coyness  which  all  have  experienced  in  addressing  even  those 
with  whom  they  are  most  intimate,  in  the  early,  half  unre- 
vealed,  and  mystic  emotions  of  first  love;  but  because  Lady 
Mary's  letters  had  been  so  full  of  her  sister's  declining  health, 
of  her  own  anxieties  and  fears,  that  he  had  shrunk  from  giving 
her  a  new  subject  of  anxiety ;  and  a  confidence,  full  of  hope 
and  joy,  seemed  to  him  unfeeling  and  unseasonable.  He  knew 
how  necessarily  uneasy  and  restless  an  avowal  that  his  heart 
was  seriously  engaged  to  one  she  had  never  seen,  would  make 
that  tender  mother ;  and  that  his  confession  would  rather  add 
to  her  cares,  than  produce  sympathy  with  his  transports.  But 
now,  feeling  impatient  for  his  mother's  assent  to  the  formal 
proposals  which  had  become  due  to  Madame  Dalibard  and 
Helen,  and  taking  advantage  of  the  letter  last  received  from 
her,  which  gave  more  cheering  accounts  of  her  sister,  and  ex- 
pressed curiosity  for  further  explanation  as  to  his  half-disclos- 
ure, he  wrote  at  length,  and  cleared  his  breast  of  all  its  secrets. 
It  was  the  same  day  in  which  he  wrote  that  confession,  and 
pleaded  his  cause,  that  we  accompany  him  to  the  house  of  his 
sweet  mistress,  and  leave  him  by  her  side,  in  the  accustomed 
garden.  Within,  Madame  Dalibard,  whose  chair  was  set  by 
the  window,  bent  over  certain  letters,  which  she  took,  one  by 
one,  from  her  desk,  and  read  slowly,  lifting  her  eyes  from  time 
to  time,  and  glancing  towards  the  young  people,  as  they 
walked,  hand  in  hand,  round  the  small  demesnes,  now  hid  by 
the  fading  foliage,  now  emerging  into  view.  Those  letters 
were  the  early  love-epistles  of  William  Mainwaring,  She  had 
not  recurred  to  them  for  years.  Perhaps  she  now  felt  that  food 
necessary  to  the  sustainment  of  her  fiendish  designs.  It  was  a 


?66  LUCRETIA. 

strange  spectacle,  to  see  this  being,  so  full  of  vital  energy, 
mobile  and  restless  as  a  serpent ;  condemned  to  that  helpless 
decrepitude,  chained  to  the  uneasy  seat — not  as  in  the  resigned 
and  passive  imbecility  of  extreme  age,  but  rather  as  one  whom, 
in  the  prime  of  life,  the  rack  has  broken,  leaving  the  limbs 
inert,  the  mind  active,  the  form  as  one  dead,  the  heart  with 
superabundant  vigor — a  cripple's  impotence,  and  a  Titan's 
will!  What,  in  that  dreary  imprisonment,  and  amidst  the 
silence  she  habitually  preserved,  passed  through  the  caverns  of 
that  breast,  one  can  no  more  conjecture,  than  one  can  count  the 
blasts  that  sweep  and  rage  through  the  hollows  of  impenetrable 
rock,  or  the  elements  that  conflict  in  the  bosom  of  the  volcano, 
everlastingly  at  work.  She  had  read,  and  replaced  the  letters, 
and  leaning  her  cheek  on  her  hand,  was  gazing  vacantly  on  the 
wall,  when  Varney  intruded  on  that  dismal  solitude. 

He  closed  the  door  after  him  with  more  than  usual  care ; 
and,  drawing  a  seat  close  to  Lucretia,  said:  "Belle  nitre,  the 
time  has  arrived  for  you  to  act — my  part  is  well  nigh  closed." 

"Ay!"  said  Lucretia  wearily ;  "What  is  the  news  you  bring?" 

"First,"  replied  Varney,  and,  as  he  spoke,  he  shut  the  win- 
dow, as  if  his  whisper  could  possibly  be  heard  without ;  "First, 
all  this  business  connected  with  Helen  is  at  length  arranged. 
You  know  when,  agreeably  to  your  permission,  I  first  suggested 
to  her,  as  it  were  casually,  that  you  were  so  reduced  in  fortune, 
that  I  trembled  to  regard  your  future ;  that  you  had  years  ago 
sacrificed  nearly  half  your  pecuniary  resources  to  maintain  her 
parents ;  she  of  herself  reminded  me  that  she  was  entitled,  when 
of  age,  to  a  sum  far  exceeding  all  her  wants,  and — " 

"That  I  might  be  a  pensioner  on  the  child  of  William  Main- 
waring  and  Susan  Mivers,"  interrputed  Lucretia.  "I  know 
that,  and  thank  her  not.  Pass  on." 

"And  you  know,  too,  that  in  the  course  of  my  conversation 
with  the  girl,  I  let  out  also  incidentally  that,  even  so,  you  were 
dependent  on  the  chances  of  her  life;  that  if  she  died  (and 
youth  itself  is  mortal)  before  she  was  of  age,  the  sum  left  her 
by  her  grandfather  would  revert  to  her  father's  family ;  and  so, 
by  hints,  I  drew  her  on  to  ask  if  there  was  no  mode  by  which, 
in  case  of  her  death,  she  might  ensure  subsistence  to  you.  So 
that  you  see  the  whole  scheme  was  made  at  her  own  prompt- 
ing. I  did  but,  as  a  man  of  business,  suggest  the  means — 
an  insurance  on  her  life." 

"Varney,  these 'details  are  hateful.  I  do  not  doubt  that  you 
have  done  all  to  forstall  inquiry  and  elude  risk.  The  girl  has 
insured  her  life  to  the  amount  of  her  fortune?" 


LUCRETIA.  267 

"To  that  amount  only!  Pooh!  Her  death  will  buy  more 
than  that!  As  no  one  single  office  will  insure  for  more  than 
£5000,  and  as  it  was  easy  to  persuade  her  that  such  offices 
were  liable  to  failure,  and  that  it  was  usual  to  insure  in  several, 
and  for  a  larger  amount  than  the  sum  desired,  I  got  her  to 
enter  herself  at  three  of  the  principal  offices.  The  amount  paid 
to  us  on  her  death  will  be  fifteen  thousand  pounds.  It  will  be 
paid  (and  here.  I  have  followed  the  best  legal  advice)  in  trust 
to  me  for  your  benefit.  Hence,  therefore,  even  if  our  re- 
searches fail  us ;  if  no  son  of  yours  can  be  found,  with  suffi- 
cient evidence  to  prove,  against  the  keen  interests  and  bought 
advocates  of  heirs-at-law,  the  right  to  Laughton,  this  girl  will 
repay  us  well ;  will  replace  what  I  have  taken,  at  the  risk  of  my 
neck,  perhaps — certainly  at  the  risk  of  the  hulks,  from  the  cap- 
ital of  my  uncle's  legacy — will  refund  what  we  have  spent  on 
the  inquiry,  and  the  residue  will  secure  to  you  an  independence 
sufficing  for  your  wants  almost  for  life,  and  to  me,  what  will 
purchase  with  economy"  (and  Varney  smiled)  "a  year  or  so  of 
a  gentleman's  idle  pleasures.  Are  you  satisfied  thus  far?" 

"She  will  die  happy  and  innocent!"  muttered  Lucretia, 
with  the  growl  of  demoniac  disappointment. 

"Will  you  wait,  then,  till  my  forgery  is  detected,  and  I  have 
no  power  to  buy  the  silence  of  the  trustees — wait  till  I  am  in 
prison,  and  on  a  trial  for  life  and  death?  Reflect,  every  day, 
every  hour  of  delay,  is  fraught  with  peril.  But  if  my  safety  is 
nothing  compared  to  the  refinement  of  your  revenge,  will 
you  wait  till  Helen  marries  Percival  St.  John.  You  start! 
But  can  you  suppose  that  this  innocent  love-play  will  not  pass 
rapidly  to  its  denouement?  It  is  but  yesterday  that  Percival 
confided  to  me  that  he  should  write  this  very  day  to  his  mother, 
and  communicate  all  his  feelings  and  his  hopes ;  that  he  waited 
but  her  assent  to  propose  formally  for  Helen.  Now  one  of 
two  things  must  happen.  Either  this  mother,  haughty  and 
vain  as  lady  mothers  mostly  are,  may  refuse  consent  to  her 
son's  marriage  with  the  daughter  of  a  disgraced  banker,  and 
the  niece  of  that  Lucretia  Dalibard  whom  her  husband  would 
not  admit  beneath  his  roof — 

"Hold,  sir!"  exclaimed  Lucretia  haughtily,  and  amidst  all 
the  passions  that  darkened  her  countenance  and  degraded  her 
soul,  some  flash  of  her  ancestral  spirit  shot  across  her  brow ; 
but  it  passed  quickly,  and  she  added,  with  fierce  composure: 
"You  are  right;  go  on!" 

"Either — and  pardon  me  for  an  insult  that  comes  not  from 
pae — either  this  will  be  the  case ;  Lady  Mary  St.  John  will  hasten 


268  LUCRETIA. 

back  in  alarm  to  London ;  she  exercises  extraordinary  con- 
trol over  her  son ;  she  may  withdraw  him  from  us  altogether — • 
from  me  as  well  as  you — and  the  occasion  now  presented  to  us 
may  be  lost  (who  knows?)  forever;  or  she  may  be  a  weak  and 
fond  woman;  may  be  detained  in  Italy  by  her  sister's  illness; 
may  be  anxious  that  the  last  lineal  descendant  of  the  St.  Johns 
should  marry  betimes;  and,  moved  by  her  darling's  prayers, 
may  consent  at  once  to  the  union.  Or  a  third  course,  which 
Percival  thinks  the  most  probable,  and  which,  though  most 
unwelcome  to  us  of  all,  I  had  well-nigh  forgotten,  may  be 
adopted.  She  may  come  to  England,  and,  in  order  to  judge 
her  son's  choice  with  her  own  eyes,  may  withdraw  Helen  from 
your  roof  to  hers.  At  all  events,  delays  are  dangerous — dan- 
gerous, putting  aside  my  personal  interest,  and  regarding  only 
your  own  object — may  bring  to  our  acts  new  and  searching 
eyes ;  may  cut  us  off  from  the  habitual  presence  either  of  Per- 
cival, or  Helen,  or  both ;  or  surround  them,  at  the  first  breath 
of  illness,  with  prying  friends,  and  formidable  precautions. 
The  birds  now  are  in  our  hands.  Why  then  open  the  cage  and 
bid  them  fly,  in  order  to  spread  the  net?  This  morning  all  the 
final  documents  with  the  insurance  companies  are  completed.  It 
remains  for  me  but  to  pay  the  first  quarterly  premiums.  For 
that  I  think  I  am  prepared  without  drawing  farther  on  your 
hoards  or  my  own  scanty  resources,  which  Grabman  will  take 
care  to  drain  fast  enough." 

"And  Percival  St.  John?"  said  Madame  Dalibard.  "We 
want  no  idle  sacrifices.  If  my  son  be  not  found,  we  need  not 
that  boy's  ghost  amongst  those  who  haunt  us." 

"Surely  not,"  said  Varney;  "and  for  my  part,  he  may  be 
more  useful  to  me  alive  than  dead.  There  is  no  insurance  on 
his  life,  and  a  rich  friend  (credulous  greenhorn  that  he  is!)  is 
scarcely  of  that  flock  of  geese  which  it  were  wise  to  slay  from 
the  mere  hope  of  a  golden  egg.  Percival  St.  John  is  your  vic- 
tim, not  mine;  not  till  you  give  the  order,  would  I  lift  a  finger 
to  harm  him." 

"Yes.  let  him  live,  unless  my  son  be  found  to  me,"  said 
Madame  Dalibard,  almost  exultingly:  "let  him  live  to  forget 
yon  fair-faced  fool,  leaning  now,  see  you,  so  delightedly  on  his 
arm,  and  fancying  eternity  in  the  hollow  vows  of  love !  Let 
him  live  to  wrong  and  abandon  her  by  forgetfulness,  though 
even  in  the  grave ;  to  laugh  at  his  boyish  dreams ;  to  sully  her 
memory  in  the  arms  of  harlots!  Oh,  if  the  dead  can  suffer, 
let  him  live,  that  she  may  feel  beyond  the  grave  his  incon- 
stancy and  his  fall!  Methinks  that  that  thought  will  comfort 


LUCRETiA. 

me,   if  Vincent   be   no   more,   and  I    stand   childless   in   the 
world!" 

"It  is  so  settled,  then,"  said  Varney,  ever  ready  to  clench 
the  business  that  promised  gold,  and  relieve  his  apprehen- 
sions of  the  detection  of  his  fraud.  "And  now  to  your  noise- 
less hands,  as  soon  as  may  be,  I  consign  the  girl:  she  has 
lived  long  enough!" 

CHAPTER  XI. 

LOVE    AND    INNOCENCE. 

WHILE  this  the  conference  between  these  execrable  and  raven- 
ing birds  of  night  and  prey,  Helen  and  her  boy-lover  were  thus 
conversing  in  the  garden,  while  the  autumn  sun — for  it  was  in 
the  second  week  of  October — broke  pleasantly  through  the  yel- 
lowing leaves  of  the  tranquil  shrubs,  and  the  flowers,  which 
should  have  died  with  the  gone  summer,  still  fresh  by  their 
tender  care,  despite  the  lateness  of  the  season,  smiled  grate- 
fully as  their  light  footsteps  passed. 

"Yes,  Helen,"  said  Percival;  "yes,  you  will  love  my  mother, 
for  she  is  one  of  those  people  who  seem  to  attract  love,  as  if  it 
were  a  property  belonging  to  them.  Even  my  dog  Beau  (you 
know  how  fond  Beau  is  of  me  /)  always  nestles  at  her  feet  when 
we  are  at  home.  I  own  she  has  pride,  but  it  is  a  pride  that 
never  offended  any  one.  You  know  there  are  some  flowers 
that  we  call  proud.  The  pride  of  the  flower  is  not  more  harm- 
less than  my  mother's.  But  perhaps  pride  is  not  the  right 
word ;  it  is  rather  the  aversion  to  anything  low  or  mean,  the 
admiration  for  everything  pure  and  high.  Ah,  how  that  very 
pride,  if  pride  it  be,  will  make  her  love  you,  my  Helen!" 

"You  need  not  tell  me,"  said  Helen,  smiling  seriously, 
"that  I  shall  love  your  mother,  I  love  her  already — nay,  from 
the  first  moment  you  said  you  had  a  mother,  my  heart  leaped 
to  her.  Your  mother!  If  ever  you  are  really  jealous,  it  mtist 
be  of  her!  But  that  she  should  love  me — that  is  what  I  doubt 
and  fear.  For  if  you  were  my  brother,  Percival,  I  should  be 
so  ambitious  for  you.  A  nymph  must  rise  from  the  stream,  a 
sylphid  from  the  rose,  before  I  could  allow  another  to  steal  you 
from  my  side.  And  if  I  think  I  should  feel  this  only  as  your 
sister,  what  can  be  precious  enough  to  satisfy  a  mother?" 

"You,  and  you  only,"  answered  Percival,  with  his  blithe- 
some laugh:  "You,  my  sweet  Helen,,  much  better  than  nymph 
or  sylphid,  about  whom,  between  ourselves,  I  never  cared 
three  straws,  even  in  a  poem.  How  pleased  you  will  be  with 


276  LUCRfcTiA. 

Laughton!  Do  you  know,  I  was  lying  awake  all  last  night,  to 
consider  what  room  you  would  like  best  for  your  own.  And  at 
last,  I  have  decided — come,  listen — it  opens  from  the  music- 
gallery  that  overhangs  the  hall.  From  the  window,  you  over- 
look the  southern  side  of  the  park,  and  catch  a  view  of  the 
lake  beyond.  There  are  two  niches  in  the  wall :  one  for  your 
piano,  one  for  your  favorite  books.  It  is  just  large  enough  to 
hold  four  persons  with  ease:  our  mother  and  myself,  your 
aunt,  whom  by  that  time  we  shall  have  petted  into  good  humor, 
and  if  we  can  coax  Ardworth  there — the  best  good  fellow  that 
ever  lived — I  think  our  party  will  be  complete.  By  the  way,  I 
am  uneasy  about  Ardworth,  it  is  so  long  since  we  have  seen 
him ;  I  have  called  three  times — nay,  five — but  his  odd- 
looking  clerk  always  swears  he  is  not  at  home.  Tell  me, 
Helen,  now,  you  who  know  him  so  well, — tell  me,  how  can  I 
serve  him?  You  know,  I  am  so  terribly  rich  (at  least,  I  shall 
be  in  a  month  or  two),  I  can  never  get  through  my  money, 
unless  my  friends  will  help  me.  And  is  it  not  shocking  that 
that  noble  fellow  should  be  so  poor,  and  yet  suffer  me  to  call 
him  'friend,'  as  if  in  friendship  one  man  should  want  every- 
thing, and  the  other  nothing.  Still,  I  don't  know  how  to  ven- 
ture to  propose — come,  you  understand  me,  Helen — let  us  lay 
our  wise  heads  together,  and  make  him  well  off,  in  spite  of 
himself." 

It  was  in  this  loose,  ooyish  talk  of  Percival's  that  he  found 
the  way,  not  only  to  Helen's  heart,  but  to  her  soul.  For  in 
this,  she  (grand,  undeveloped  poetess)  recognized  a  nobler 
poetry  than  we  chain  to  rhythm — the  poetry  of  generous  deeds. 
She  yearned  to  kiss  the  warm  hand  she  held,  and  drew  nearer 
to  his  side  as  she  answered:  "And  sometimes,  dear,  dear  Per- 
cival,  you  wonder  why  I  would  rather  listen  to  you  than  to  all 
Mr.  Varney's  bitter  eloquence,  or  even  to  my  dear  cousin's 
aspiring  ambition.  They  talk  well,  but  it  is  of  themselves; 
while  you — " 

Percival  blushed,  and  checked  her. 

"Well,"  she  said;  "Well,  to  your  question.  Alas!  you 
know  little  of  my  cousin,  if  you  think  all  our  arts  could  decoy 
him  out  of  his  rugged  independence,  and,  much  as  I  love  him, 
I  could  not  wish  it.  But  do  not  fear  for  him ;  he  is  one  of 
those  who  are  born  to  succeed,  and  without  help." 

"How  do  you  know  that,  pretty  prophetess?"  said  Percival, 
with  the  superior  air  of  manhood.  "I  have  seen  more  of  the 
world  than  you  have,  and  I  cannot  see  why  Ardworth  should  suc- 
ceed as  you  call  it ;  or,  if  so,  why  he  should  succeed  less  if  he 


LtJCRETIA.  271 

swung  his  hammock  in  a  better  berth  than  that  hole  in  Gray's 
Inn,  and  would  just  let  me  keep  him  a  cab  and  a  groom." 

Had  Percival  talked  of  keeping  John  Ardworth  an  elephant 
and  a  palanquin,  Helen  could  not  have  been  more  amused. 
She  clapped  her  little  hands  in  a  delight  that  provoked  Perci- 
val, and  laughed  out  loud.  Then  seeing  her  boy-lover's  lip 
pouted  petulantly,  and  his  brow  was  overcast,  she  said  more 
seriously : 

"Do  you  not  know  what  it  is  to  feel  convinced  of  something 
which  you  cannot  explain?  Well,  I  feel  this  as  to  my  cousin's 
fame  and  fortunes.  Surely,  too,  you  must  feel  it,  you  scarce 
know  why,  when  he  speaks  of  that  future,  which  seems  so  dim 
and  so  far  to  me,  as  of  something  that  belonged  to  him." 

"Very  true,  Helen,"  said  Percival;  "he  lays  it  out  like  the 
map  of  his  estate.  One  can't  laugh  when  he  says  so  carelessly : 
'At  such  an  age  I  shall  lead  my  circuit;  at  such  an  age  I  shall 
be  rich ;  at  such  an  age  I  shall  enter  Parliament — and  beyond 
that  I  shall  look  as  yet  no  further.'  And,  poor  fellow,  then  he 
will  be  forty-three!  And  in  the  mean  while,  to  suffer  such  pri- 
vations!" 

"There  are  no  privations  to  one  who  lives  in  the  future," 
said  Helen,  with  that  noble  intuition  .into  lofty  natures  which  at 
times  flashed  from  her  childish  simplicity,  foreshadowing  what, 
if  Heaven  spare  her  life,  her  maturer  intellect  may  develop : 
"For  Ardworth  there  is  no  such  thing  as  poverty.  He  is  as  rich 
in  his  hopes  as  we  are  in — "  She  stopped  short,  blushed,  and 
continued  with  downcast  looks:  "As  well  might  you  pity  me 
in  these  walks,  so  dreary  without  you.  I  do  not  live  in  them — 
I  live  in  my  thoughts  of  you." 

Her  voice  trembled  with  emotion  in  those  last  words.  She 
slid  from  Percival's  arm,  and  timidly  sate  down  (and  he  beside 
her)  on  a  little  mound  under  the  single  chesnut  tree  that 
threw  its  shade  over  the  garden. 

Both  were  silent  for  some  moments — Percival  with  grateful 
ecstacy,  Helen  with  one  of  those  sudden  fits  of  mysterious 
melancholy,  to  which  her  nature  was  so  subjected. 

He  was  the  first  to  speak.  "Helen,"  he  said  gravely, 
"since  I  have  known  you,  I  feel  as  if  life  were  a  more  solemn 
thing  than  I  ever  regarded  it  before.  It  seems  to  me  as  if  a 
new  and  more  arduous  duty  were  added  to  those  for  which  I  was 
prepared — a  duty,  Helen,  to  become  worthy  of  you !  Will  you 
smile?  No — you  will  not  smile,  if  I  say  I  have  had  my  brief 
moments  of  ambition.  Sometimes  as  a  boy,  with  Plutarch  in 
my  hand,  stretched  idly  under  the  old  cedar  trees  at  Laugh- 


$1*  LUCRE?!  A. 

ton ;  sometimes  as  a  sailor,  when,  becalmed  on  the  Atlantic, 
and  my  ears  freshly  filled  with  tales  of  Collingvvood  and  Nel- 
son, I  stole  from  my  comrades,  and  leant,  musingly,  over  the 
boundless  sea.  But  when  this  ample  heritage  passed  to  me ; 
when  I  had  no  more  my  own  fortunes  to  make,  my  own  rank 
to  build  up — such  dreams  became  less  and  less  frequent:  Is  it 
not  true  that  wealth  makes  us  contented  to  be  obscure?  Yes; 
I  understand,  while  I  speak,  why  poverty  itself  befriends,  not 
cripples,  Ardworth's  energies.  But  since  I  have  known  you, 
dearest  Helen,  those  dreams  return  more  vividly  than  ever. 
He  who  claims  you,  should  be — must  be — something  nobler 
than  the  crowd!  Helen!"  and  he  rose  by  an  irresistible  and 
restless  impulse,  "I  shall  not  be  contented  till  you  areas  proud 
of  your  choice  as  I  of  mine!" 

It  seemed,  as  Percival  spoke  and  looked,  as  if  boyhood  were 
cast  from  him  forever.  The  unusual  weight  and  gravity  of  his 
words,  to  which  his  tone  gave  even  eloquence,  the  steady  flash 
of  his  dark  eyes,  his  erect,  elastic  form — all  had  the  dignity  of 
man.  Helen  gazed  on  him  silently,  and  with  a  heart  so  full 
that  words  could  not  come,  and  tears  overflowed  instead. 

That  sight  sobered  him  at  once ;  he  knelt  down  beside  her, 
threw  his  arms  around  her — it  was  his  first  embrace — and  kissed 
the  tears  away. 

"How  have  I  distressed  you?    Why  do  you  weep?" 

"Let  me  weep  on,  Percival,  dear  Percival!  These  tears  are 
like  prayers — they  speak  to  Heaven — and  of  you!" 

A  step  came  noiselessly  over  the  grass,  and  between  the  lov- 
ers and  the  sunlight  stood  Gabriel  Varney. 

CHAPTER  XII. 

SUDDEN    CELEBRITY    AND    PATIENT    HOPE. 

PERCIVAL  was  unusually  gloomy  and  abstracted  in  his  way 
to  town  that  day,  though  Varney  was  his  companion,  and  in 
the  full  play  of  those  animal  spirits  which  he  owed  to  his  un- 
rivalled physical^  organization  and  the  obtuseness  of  his  con- 
science. Seeing,  at  length,  that  his  gayety  did  not  communi- 
cate itself  to  Percival,  he  paused  and  looked  at  him  suspi- 
ciously. A  falling  leaf  startles  the  steed,  and  a  shadow  the 
guilty  man. 

"You  are  sad,  Percival?"  he  said  inquiringly.  "What  has 
disturbed  you?" 

"It  is  nothing — or,  at  least,  would  seem   nothing  to  you," 


LUCRETIA.  273 

answered  Percival,  with  an  effort  to  smile,  "for  I  have  heard 
you  laugh  at  the  doctrine  of  presentiments.  We  sailors  are 
more  superstitious." 

"What  presentiment  can  yon  possibly  entertain?"  asked 
Varney,  more  anxiously  than  Percival  could  have  anticipated. 

"Presentiments  are  not  so  easily  defined,  Varney.  But,  in 
truth,  poor  Helen  has  infected  me.  Have  you  not  remarked, 
that,  gay  as  she  habitually  is,  some  shadow  comes  over  her  so 
suddenly,  that  one  cannot  trace  the  cause?" 

"My  dear  Percival,"  said  Varney,  after  a  short  pause, 
"what  you  say  does  not  surprise  me.  It  would  be  false  kind- 
ness to  conceal  from  you  that  I  heard  Madame  Dalibard  say  that 
her  mother  was,  when  about  her  age,  threatened  with  consump- 
tive symptoms,  but  she  lived  many  years  afterwards.  Nay, 
nay,  rally  yourself;  Helen's  appearance,  despite  the  extreme 
purity  of  her  complexion,  is  not  that  of  one  threatened  by  the 
terrible  malady  of  our  climate.  The  young  are  often  haunted 
with  the  idea  of  early  death.  As  we  grow  older,;  that  thought 
is  less  cherished ;  in  youth  it  is  a  sort  of  luxury.  To  this 
mournful  idea  (which  you  see,  you  have  remarked  as  well  as  I), 
we  must  attribute  not  only  Helen's  occasional  melancholy,  but 
a  generosity  of  forethought,  which  I  cannot  deny  myself  the 
pleasure  of  communicating  to  you,  though  her  delicacy  would 
be  shocked  at  my  indiscretion.  You  know  how  helpless  her 
aunt  is.  Well,  Helen,  who  is  entitled,  when  of  age,  to  a  mod- 
erate competence,  has  persuaded  me  to  insure  her  life,  and 
accept  a  trust  to  hold  the  moneys  (if  ever  unhappily  due)  for 
the  benefit  of  my  mother-in-law,  so  that  Madame  Dalibard  may 
not  be  left  destitute,  if  her  niece  die  before  she  is  twenty-one. 
How  like  Helen!  Is  it  not?" 

Percival  was  too  overcome  to  answer. 

Varney  resumed:  "I  entreat  you  not  to  mention  this  to 
Helen ;  it  would  offend  her  modesty  to  have  the  secret  of  her 
good  deeds  thus  betrayed  by  one  to  whom  alone  she  confided 
them.  I  could  not  resist  her  entreaties;  though,  cntre-nous,  it 
cripples  me  not  a  little  to  advance  for  her  the  necessary  sums 
for  the  premiums.  Apropos,  this  brings  me  to  a  point  on 
which  I  feel,  as  the  vulgar  idiom  goes,  'very  awkward,' — as  I 
always  do  in  these  confounded  money  matters.  But  you  were 
good  enough  to  ask  me  to  paint  you  a  couple  of  pictures  for 
Laughton.  Now,  if  you  could  let  me  have  some  portion  of 
the  sum,  whatever  it  be  (for  I  don't  price  my  paintings  to 
you),  it  would  very  much  oblige  me." 

Percival  turned  away  his  face  as  he  wrung  Varney's  hand, 


274  LUCRETIA. 

and  muttered,  with  a  choked  voice:  "Let  me  have  my  share 
in  Helen's  divine  forethought.  Good  Heavens!  she,  so  young, 
to  look  thus  beyond  the  grave,  always  for  others — for  others!" 

Callous  as  the  wretch  was,  Percival's  emotion  and  his  proposal 
struck  Varney  with  a  sentiment  like  compunction.  He  had 
designed  to  appropriate  the  lover's  gold,  as  it  was  now  offered; 
but  that  Percival  himself  should  propose  it,  blind  to  the  grave 
to  which  that  gold  paved  the  way,  was  a  horror  not  counted  in 
those  to  which  his  fell  cupidity  and  his  goading  apprehensions 
had  familiarized  his  conscience. 

"No,"  he  said,  with  one  of  those  wayward  scruples  to  which 
the  blackest  criminals  are  sometimes  susceptible ;  "no.  I  have 
promised  Helen  to  regard  this  as  a  loan  to  her,  which  she  is  to 
repay  me  when  of  age.  What  you  may  advance  me  is  for  the 
pictures.  I  have  a  right  to  do  as  I  please  with  what  is  bought 
by  my  own  labor.  And  the  subjects  of  the  pictures — what 
shall  they  be?" 

"For  one  picture  try  and  recall  Helen's  aspect  and  attitude 
when  you  came  to  us  in  the  garden,  and  entitle  your  subject, 
'The  Foreboding.'  " 

"Hem!"  said  Varney  hesitatingly.  "And  the  other  sub- 
ject?" 

"Wait  for  that,  till  the  joy-bells  at  Laughton  have  welcomed 
a  bride,  and  then — and  then,  Varney,"  added  Percival,  with 
something  of  his  natural  joyous  smile,  "you  must  take  the  ex- 
pression as  you  find  it.  Once  under  my  care,  and,  please 
Heaven,  the  one  picture  shall  laughingly  upbraid  the  other!" 

As  this  was  said,  the  cabriolet  stopped  at  Percival's  door. 
Varney  dined  with  him  that  day;  and  if  the  conversation 
flagged,  it  did  not  revert  to  the  subject  which  had  so  darkened 
the  bright  spirits  of  the  host,  and  so  tried  the  hypocrisy  of 
the  guest.  When  Varney  left,  which  he  did  as  soon  as  the 
dinner  was  concluded,  Percival  silently  put  a  check  into  his 
hands,  to  a  greater  amount  than  Varney  had  anticipated  even 
from  his  generosity. 

"This  is  for  four  pictures,  not  two,"  he  said,  shaking  his 
head;  and  then,  with  his  characteristic  conceit,  he  added: 
"Well,  some  years  hence,  the  world  shall  not  call  them  over- 
paid. Adieu,  my  Medici;  a  dozen  such  men,  and  Art  would 
revive  in  England." 

When  he  was  left  alone,  Percival  sate  down,  and,  leaning  his 
face  on  both  hands,  gave  way  to  the  gloom  which  his  native 
manliness,  and  the  delicacy  that  belongs  to  true  affection,  had 
made  him  struggle  not  to  indulge  in  the  presence  of  another. 


LUCRETIA.  275 

Never  had  he  so  loved  Helen  as  in  that  hour ;  never  had  he  so 
intimately  and  intensely  felt  her  matchless  worth.  The  image 
of  her  unselfish,  quiet,  melancholy  consideration  for  that  au- 
stere, uncaressing,  unsympathizing  relation,  under  whose  shade 
her  young  heart  must  have  withered,  seemed  to  him  filled  with 
a  celestial  pathos.  And  he  almost  hated  Varney  that  the  cynic 
painter  could  have  talked  of  it  with  that  business-like  phlegm. 
The  evening  deepened ;  the  tranquil  street  grew  still ;  the  air 
seemed  close ;  the  solitude  oppressed  him ;  he  rose  abruptly, 
seized  his  hat,  and  went  forth,  slowly,  and  still  with  a  heavy 
heart. 

As  he  entered  Piccadilly,  on  the  broad  step  of  that  house 
successively  inhabited  by  the  Duke  of  Queensbury  and  Lord 
Hertford, — on  the  step  of  that  mansion,  up  which  so  many 
footsteps  light  with  wanton  pleasure  have  gayly  trod,  Percival's 
eye  fell  upon  a  wretched,  squalid,  ragged  object,  doubled  up, 
as  it  were,  in  that  last  despondency  which  has  ceased  to  beg, 
that  has  no  care  to  steal,  that  has  no  wish  to  live.  Percival 
halted,  and  touched  the  outcast. 

' '  What  is  the  matter,  my  poor  fellow  ?  Take  care — the  police- 
man will  not  suffer  you  to  rest  here.  Come,  cheer  up,  I  say! 
There  is  something  to  find  you  a  better  lodging!" 

The  silver  fell  unheeded  on  the  stones.  The  thing  of  rags 
did  not  even  raise  its  head,  but  a  low  broken  voice  muttered : 

"It  be  too  late  now — let  'em  take  me  to  prison :  let  'em  send 
me  'cross  the  sea  to  Buttany;  let  'em  hang  me,  if  they  please. 
I  be's  good  for  nothing  now — nothing!" 

Altered  as  the  voice  was,  it  struck  Percival  as  familiar.  He 
looked  down  and  caught  a  view  of  the  drooping  face. 

"Up,  man,  up!"  he  said,  cheerily;  "See,  Providence  sends 
you  an  old  friend  in  need,  to  teach  you  never  to  despair  again." 

The  hearty  accent,  more  than  the  words,  touched  and 
aroused  the  poor  creature.  He  rose  mechanically,  and  a  sickly, 
grateful  smile  passed  over  his  wasted  features,  as  he  recognized 
St.  John. 

"Come,  how  is  this?  I  have  always  understood  that  to  keep 
a  crossing  was  a  flourishing  trade  nowadays." 

"I  'as  no  crossin.'  I  'as  sold  her!"  groaned  Beck.  "I  be's 
good  for  nothin'  now,  but  to  cadge  about  the  streets,  and  steal, 
and  filch,  and  hang  like  the  rest  on  us!  Thank  you, kindly,  sir, 
(and  Beck  pulled  his  forelock),  but,  please  your  'onor,  I  vould 
rather  make  an  ind  on  it!" 

"Pooh,  pooh!  Didn't  I  tell  you  when  you  wanted  a  friend 
to  come  to  me?  Why  did  you  doubt  me,  foolish  fellow?  Pick 


276  LUCRETIA. 

up  those  shillings — get  a  bed  and  a  supper.  Come  and  see  me 
to-morrow  at  nine  o'clock;  you  know  where — the  same  house 
in  Curzon  Street;  you  shall  tell  me  then  your  whole  story,  and 
it  shall  go  hard  but  I'll  buy  you  another  crossing,  or  get  you 
something  just  as  good." 

Poor  Beck  swayed  a  moment  or  two  :on  his  slender  legs,  like 
a  drunken  man,  and  then  suddenly  falling  on  his  knees,  he 
kissed  the  hem  of  his  benefactor's  garment,  and  fairly  wept. 
Those  tears  relieved  him :  they  seemed  to  wash  the  drought  of 
despair  from  his  heart. 

"Hush,  hush!  or  we  shall  have  a  crowd  round  us.  You'll 
not  forget,  my  poor  friend,  No. —  Curzon  Street — nine  to- 
morrow. Make  haste,  now,  and  get  food  and  rest;  you  look 
indeed,  as  if  you  wanted  them.  Ah!  would  to  Heaven  all  the 
poverty  in  this  huge  city  stood  here  in  thy  person,  and  we 
could  aid  it  as  easily  as  I  can  thee!" 

Percival  had  moved  on  as  he  said  those  last  words,  and,  look- 
ing back,  he  had  the  satisfaction  to  see  that  Beck  was  slowly 
crawling  after  him,  and  had  escaped  the  grim  question  of  a  very 
portly  policeman,  who  had  no  doubt  expressed  a  natural  in- 
dignation at  the  audacity  of  so  ragged  a  skeleton  not  keeping 
itself  respectably  at  home  in  its  churchyard. 

Entering  one  of  the  clubs  in  St.  James's  Street,  Percival 
found  a  small  knot  of  politicians  in  eager  conversation  respect- 
ing a  new  book  which  had  been  published  but  a  day  or  two 
before,  but  which  had  already  seized  the  public  attention  with 
that  strong  grasp  which  constitutes  always  an  era  in  an  author's 
life,  sometimes  an  epoch  in  a  nation's  literature.  The  news- 
papers were  full  of  extracts  from  the  work— the  gossips  of  con- 
jecture as  to  the  authorship.  We  need  scarcely  say  that  a  book 
which  makes  this  kind  of  sensation  must  hit  some  popular  feel- 
ing of  the  hour,  supply  some  popular  want.  Ninety-nine  times 
out  of  a  hundred,  therefore,  its  character  is  political :  it  was  so  in 
the  present  instance.  It  may  be  remembered  that  that  year  Par- 
liament sate  during  great  part  of  the  month  of  October,  that  it 
was  the  year  in  which  the  Reform  Bill  was  rejected  by  the 
House  of  Lords,  and  that  public  feeling  in  our  time  had  never 
been  so  keenly  excited.  This  work  appeared  during  the  short 
interval  between  the  rejection  of  the  Bill  and  the  prorogation 
of  Parliament.*  And  what  made  it  more  remarkable,  was  that 
while  stamped  with  the  passion  of  the  time,  there  was  a  weight 
of  calm  and  stern  reasoning  embodied  in  its  vigorous  periods, 
which  gave  to  the  arguments  of  the  advocate  something  of  the 

*  Parliament  was  prorogued  October  20  ;  the  bill  rejected  by  the  Lords,  October  g, 


LUCRETIA.  277 

impartiality  of  the  judge.  Unusually  abstracted  and  unsocial, 
for,  despite  his  youth  and  that  peculiar  bashfulness  before 
noticed,  he  was  generally  alive  enough  to  all  that  passed  around 
him,  Percival  paid  little  attention  to  the  comments  that  circu- 
lated round  the  easy-chairs  in  his  vicinity,  till  a  subordinate  in 
the  administration,  with  whom  he  was  slightly  acquainted, 
pushed  a  small  volume  towards  him,  and  said: 

"You  have  seen  this,  of  course,  St.  John?  Ten  to  one  you 

do  not  guess  the  author.  It  is  certainly  not  B— m,  though 

the  Lord  Chancellor  has  energy  enough  for  anything.  R 

says  it  has  a  touch  of  S r. " 

"Could  M y  have  written  it?"  asked  a  young  member 

of  Parliament  timidly. 

"M y!  Very  like  his  matchless  style,  to  be  sure! 

You  can  have  read  little  of  M y,  I  should  think,"  said  the 

subordinate,  with  the  true  sneer  of  an  official  and  a  critic. 

The  young  member  could  have  slunk  into  a  nutshell. 

Percival,  with  very  languid  interest,  glanced  over  the  volume. 
But  despite  his  mood,  and  his  moderate  affection  for  political 
writings,  the  passage  he  opened  upon  struck  and  seized  him 
unawares.  Though  the  sneer  of  the  official  was  just,  and  the 

style  was  not  comparable  to  M y's  (whose  is?  ),  still  the 

steady  rush  of  strong  words — strong  with  strong  thoughts — 
heaped  massively  together,  showed  the  ease  of  genius  and  the 
gravity  of  thought:  the  absence  of  all  effeminate  glitter,  the 
iron  grapple  with  the  pith  and  substance  of  the  argument  op- 
posed, seemed  familiar  to  Percival.  He  thought  he  heard  the 
deep  bass  of  John  Ardworth's  earnest  voice,  when  some  truth 
roused  his  advocacy,  or  some  falsehood  provoked  his  wrath. 
He  put  down  the  book,  bewildered.  Could  it  be  the  obscure, 
briefless  lawyer  in  Gray's  Inn  (that  very  morning  the  object 
of  his  young  pity),  who  was  thus  lifted  into  fame?  He  smiled 
at  his  own  credulity.  But  he  listened  with  more  attention  to 
the  enthusiastic  praises  that  circled  round,  and  the  various 
guesses  which  accompanied  them.  Soon,  however,  his  former 
gloom  returned — the  Babel  began  to  chafe  and  weary  him.  He 
rose  and  went  forth  again  into  the  air.  He  strolled  on  without 
purpose,  but  mechanically,  into  the  street  where  he  had  first 
seen  Helen.  He  paused  a  few  moments  under  the  colonnade 
which  faced  Beck's  old  deserted  crossing.  His  pause  attracted 
the  notice  of  one  of  the  unhappy  beings  whom  we  suffer  to 
pollute  our  streets  and  rot  in  our  hospitals.  She  approached 
and  spoke  to  him — to  him  whose  heart  was  so  full  of  Helen! 
He  shuddered,  and  strode  on.  At  length,  he  paused  before 


278  LtfCRETIA. 

the  twin  towers  of  Westminster  Abbey,  on  which  the  moon 
rested  in  solemn  splendor;  and  in  that  space,  one  man  only 
shared  his  solitude.  A  figure  with  folded  arms  leant  against 
the  iron  rails,  near  the  statue  of  Canning,  and  his  gaze  compre- 
hended in  one  view,  the  walls  of  the  Parliament,  in  which  all 
passions  wage  their  war,  and  the  glorious  abbey,  which  gives 
a  Walhalla  to  the  great.  The  utter  stillness  of  the  figure  so  in 
unison  with  the  stillness  of  the  scene,  had  upon  Percival  more 
effect  than  would  have  been  produced  by  the  most  clamorous 
crowd.  He  looked  round  curiously,  as  he  passed,  and  uttered 
an  exclamation,  as  he  recognized  John  Ardworth. 

"You,  Percival!"  said  Ardworth;  "A  strange  meeting-place 
at  this  hour!  What  can  bring  you  hither?" 

"Only  whim,  I  fear — and  you?"  as  Percival  linked  his 
arm  into  Ardworth' s. 

' '  Twenty  years  hence  I  will  tell  you  what  brought  me  hither ! ' ' 
answered  Ardworth,  moving  slowly  back  towards  Whitehall. 

"If  we  are  alive  then!" 

"We  live  till  our  destinies  below  are  fulfilled;  till  our  uses 
have  passed  from  us  in  this  sphere,  and  rise  to  benefit  another. 
For  the  soul  is  as  a  sun,  but  with  this  noble  distinction,  the  sun 
is  confined  in  its  career;  day  after  day  it  visits  the  s^me  lands, 
gilds  the  same  planets,  or  rather,  as  the  astronomers  hold, 
stands  the  motionless  centre  of  moving  worlds.  But  the  soul, 
when  it  sinks  into  seeming  darkness  and  the  deep,  rises  to 
new  destinies,  fresh  regions  unvisited  before.  What  we  call 
Eternity  may  be  but  an  endless  series  of  those  transitions,  which 
men  call  deaths,  abandonments  of  home  after  home,  ever  to 
fairer  scenes  and  loftier  heights.  Age  after  age,  the  spirit, 
that  glorious  Nomad,  may  shift  its  tent,  fated  not  to  rest  in  the 
dull  Elysium  of  the  Heathen,  but  carrying  with  it  ever  more 
its  elements, — Activity  and  Desire.  Why  should  the  soul  ever 
repose?  God,  its  Principle,  reposes  never.  While  we  speak, 
new  worlds  are  sparkling  forth — suns  are  throwing  off  their 
nebulae,  nebulae  are  hardening  into  worlds.  The  Almighty 
proves  his  existence  by  creating.  Think  you  that  Plato  is  at 
rest,  and  Shakspeare  only  basking  on  a  sun-cloud?  Labor  is  the 
very  essence  of  spirit  as  of  divinity ;  labor  is  the  purgatory  of 
the  erring;  it  may  become  the  hell  of  the  wicked,  but  labor  is 
not  less  the  heaven  of  the  good!" 

Ardworth  spoke  with  unusual  earnestness  and  passion ;  and 
his  idea  of  the  future  was  emblematic  of  his  own  active  nature: 
for  each  of  us  is  wisely  left  to  shape  out,  amidst  the  impenetra- 
ble mists,  his  own  ideal  of  the  Hereafter.  The  warrior  child 


LUCRETIA.  279 

of  the  biting  North  placed  his  Hela  amid  snows,  and  his  Him- 
mel  in  the  banquets  of  victorious  war ;  the  son  of  the  East, 
parched  by  relentless  summer,  his  hell  amidst  fire,  and  1m 
elysium  by  cooling  streams ;  the  weary  peasant  sighs  through 
life  for  rest,  and  rest  awaits  his  vision  beyond  the  grave ;  the 
workman  of  genius — ever  ardent,  ever  young — honors  toil  as  the 
glorious  development  of  being,  and  springs  refreshed  over  the 
abyss  of  the  grave,  to  follow,  from  star  to  star,  the  progress 
that  seems  to  him  at  once  the  supreme  felicity  and  the  neces- 
sary law.  So  be  it  with  the  fantasy  of  each!  Wisdom  that  is 
infallible,  and  love  that  never  sleeps,  watch  over  the  dark- 
ness— and  bid  darkness  be,  that  we  may  dream ! 

"Alas!"  said  the  young  listener,  "what  reproof  do  you  not 
convey  to  those,  like  me,  who  devoid  of  the  power  which  gives  re- 
sults to  every  toil,  have  little  left  to  them  in  life,  but  to  idle 
life  away.  All  have  not  the  gift  to  write,  or  harangue,  or  specu- 
late, or — " 

"Friend,"  interrupted  Ardworth  bluntly;  "do  not  belie 
yourself.  There  lives  not  a  man  on  earth — out  of  a  lunatic 
asylum — who  has  not  in  him  the  power  to  do  good.  What  can 
writers,  haranguers,  or  speculators  do  more  than  that?  Have 
you  ever  entered  a  cottage,  ever  travelled  in  a  coach,  ever  talked 
with  a  peasant  in  the  field,  or  loitered  with  a  mechanic  at  the 
loom,  and  not  found  that  each  of  those  men  had  a  talent  you 
had  not;  knew  some  things  you  knew  not?  The  most  useless 
creature  that  ever  yawned  at  a  club,  or  counted  the  vermin  on 
his  rags  under  the  suns  of  Calabria,  has  no  excuse  for  want  of 
intellect.  What  men  want  is,  not  talent,  it  is  purpose;  in  other 
words,  not  the  power  to  achieve,  but  the  will  to  labor.  You, 
Percival  Saint  John — you  affect  to  despond,  lest  you  should 
not  have  your  uses;  you  with  that  fresh  warm  heart;  you  with 
that  pure  enthusiasm  for  what  is  fresh  and  good;  you,  who 
can  even  admire  a  thing  like  Varney,  because,  through  the 
tawdry  man,  you  recognize  art  and  skill,  even  though  wasted 
in  spoiling  canvas;  you,  who  have  only  to  live  as  you  feel,  in 
order  to  diffuse  blessings  all  around  you.— fie,  foolish  boy! 
You  will  own  your  error  when  I  tell  you  why  I  come  from  my 
rooms  at  Gray's  Inn  to  see  the  walls  in  which  Hampden,  a  plain 
country  squire  like  you,  shook  with  plain  words  the  tyranny  of 
eight  hundred  years." 

"Ardworth,  I  will  not  wait  your  time  to  tell  me  what  took 
you  yonder.  I  have  penetrated  a  secret  that  you,  not  kindly, 
kept  from  me.  This  morning  you  rose  and  found  yourself 
famous ;  this  evening  you  have  come  to  gaze  upon  the  scene 


280  LUCRET1A. 

of  the  career  to  which  that  fame  will  more  rapidly  conduct 
you — " 

"And  upon  the  tomb  which  the  proudest  ambition  I  can  form 
on  earth  must  content  itself  to  win !  A  poor  conclusion,  if  all 
ended  here!" 

"I  am  right,  however,"  said  Percival,  with  boyish  pleasure. 
"It  is  you  whose  praises  have  just  filled  my  ears.  You,  dear — 
dear  Ardworth!  How  rejoiced  I  am!" 

Ard worth  pressed  heartily  the  hand  extended  to  him:  "I 
should  have  trusted  you  with  my  secret  to-morrow,  Percival ; 
as  it  is,  keep  it  for  the  present.  A  craving  of  my  nature  has 
been  satisfied,  a  grief  has  found  distraction ;  as  for  the  rest, 
any  child  who  throws  a  stone  into  the  water  with  all  his  force 
can  make  a  splash ;  but  he  would  be  a  fool,  indeed,  if  he  sup- 
posed that  the  splash  was  a  sign  that  he  had  turned  a  stream." 

Here  Ardworth  ceased  abruptly,  and  Percival,  engrossed  by 
a  bright  idea,  which  had  suddenly  occurred  to  him,  exclaimed : 

"Ardworth,  your  desire,  your  ambition,  is  to  enter  Parlia- 
ment ;  there  must  be  a  dissolution  shortly — the  success  of  your 
book  will  render  you  acceptable  to  many  a  popular  constitu- 
ency. All  you  can  want  is  a  sum  for  the  necessary  expenses. 
Borrow  that  sum  from  me,  repay  me  when  you  are  in  the  cabi- 
net, or  attorney-general.  It  shall  be  so!" 

A  look  so  bright,  that  even  by  that  dull  lamplight  the  glow 
of  the  cheek,  the  brilliancy  of  the  eye  were  visible,  flashed  over 
Ardworth's  face.  He  felt  at  that  moment  what  ambitious  man 
must  feel  when  the  object  he  has  seen  dimly  and  afar  is  placed 
within  his  grasp ;  but  his  reason  was  proof  even  against  that 
strong  temptation. 

He  passed  his  arm  round  the  boy's  slender  waist,  and  drew 
him  to  his  heart,  with  grateful  affection, as  he  replied: 

"And  what,  if  now  in  Parliament,  giving  up  my  career,  with 
no  regular  means  of  subsistence, — what  could  I  be,  but  a  venal 
adventurer?  Place  would  become  so  vitally  necessary  tome, 
that  I  should  feed  but  a  dangerous  war  between  my  conscience 
and  my  wants.  In  chasing  Fame,  the  shadow,  I  should  lose 
the  substance,  Independence ;  why,  that  very  thought  would 
paralyze  my  tongue.  No,  no  my  generous  friend.  As  labor 
is  the  arch  elevator  of  man,  so  patience  is  the  essence  of  labor. 
First  let  me  build  the  foundation,  I  may  then  calculate  the 
height  of  my  tower.  First  let  me  be  independent  of  the  great ; 
I  will  then  be  the  champion  of  the  lowly.  Hold !  Tempt  me 
no  more!  Do  not  lure  me  to  the  loss  of  self-esteem!  And 
now,  Percival,"  resumed  Ardworth,  in  the  tone  of  one  who 


LUCRETIA.  281 

wishes  to  plunge  into  some  utterly  new  current  of  thought,  "let 
us  forget  for  awhile  these  solemn  aspirations,  and  be  frolicsome 
and  human.  ' Nemo  mortalium  omnibus  horis  sapit.'  ' Neque 
semper  arcum  tendit  Apollo.'  What  say  you  to  a  cigar?" 

Percival  stared.  He  was  not  yet  familiarized  to  the  eccen- 
tric whims  of  his  friend! 

"Hot  negus  and  a  cigar!"  repeated  Ardworth,  while  a  smile, 
full  of  drollery,  played  round  the  corners  of  his  lips,  and 
twinkled  in  his  deep-set  eyes. 

"Are  you  serious?" 

"Not  serious — I  have  been  serious  enough  (and  Ardworth 
sighed)  for  the  last  three  weeks.  Who  goes  'to  Corinth  to  be 
sage';  or  to  the  Cider  Cellar  to  be  serious?" 

"I  subscribe,  then,  to  the  negus  and  cigar, "  said  Percival, 
smiling;  and  he  had  no  cause  to  repent  his  compliance,  as  he 
accompanied  Ardworth  to  one  of  the  resorts  favored  by  that 
strange  person  in  his  rare  hours  of  relaxation. 

For,  seated  at  his  favorite  table,  which  happened,  luckily,  to 
be  vacant,  with  his  head  thrown  carelessly  back,  and  his  negus 
steaming  before  him,  John  Ardworth  continued  to  pour  forth, 
till  the  clock  struck  three,  jest  upon  jest,  pun  upon  pun,  broad 
drollery  upon  broad  drollery,  without  flagging,  without  inter- 
mission— so  varied,  so  copious,  so  ready,  so  irresistible,  that 
Percival  was  transported  out  of  all  his  melancholy,  in  enjoy- 
ing, for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  the  exuberant  gayety  of  a 
grave  mind  once  set  free,  all  its  intellect  sparkling  into  wit,  all 
its  passion  rushing  into  humor.  And  this  was  the  man  he  had 
pitied! — supposed  to.  have  no  sunny  side  to  his  life!  How 
much  greater  had  been  his  compassion  and  his  wonder,  if  he 
could  have  known  all  that  had  passed,  within  the  last  few 
weeks,  through  that  gloomy  yet  silent  breast,  which,  by  the 
very  breadth  of  its  mirth,  showed  what  must  be  the  depth  of  its 
sadness ! 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE    LOSS   OF    THE    CROSSING. 

DESPITE  the  lateness  of  the  hour  before  he  got  to  rest,  Per- 
cival had  already  breakfasted,  when  his  valet  informed  him, 
with  raised,  supercilious  eyebrows,  that  "an  uncommon  ragged 
sort  of  a  person  insisted  that  he  had  been  told  to  call." 
Though  Beck  had  been  at  the  house  before,  and  the  valet  had 
admitted  him, — so  much  thinner,  so  much  more  ragged  was  he 
now,  that  the  trim  servant — no  close  observer  of  such  folks — • 


282  LUCRETIA. 

did  not  recognize  him.  However,  at  Percival's  order,  too 
well-bred  to  show  surprise,  he  ushered  Beck  up  with  much 
civility;  and  St.  John  was  painfully  struck  with  the  ravages  a 
few  weeks  had  made  upon  the  sweeper's  countenance.  The 
lines  were  so  deeply  ploughed,  the  dry  hair  looked  so  thin,  and 
was  so  sown  with  gray,  that  Beck  might  have  beat  all  Farren's 
skill  in  the  part  of  an  old  man. 

The  poor  Sweeper's  tale,  extricated  from  its  peculiar  phrase- 
ology, was  simple  enough,  and  soon  told:  He  had  returned  at 
night  to  find  his  hoards  stolen,  and  the  labor  of  his  life  over- 
thrown. How  he  passed  that  night  he  did  not  very  well  re- 
member. We  may  well  suppose  that  the  little  reason  he  pos- 
sessed was  well-nigh  bereft  from  him.  No  suspicion  of  the 
exact  thief  crossed  his  perturbed  mind.  Bad  as  Grabman's 
character  might  be,  he  held  a  respectable  position  compared 
with  the  other  lodgers  in  the  house.  Bill,  the  cracksman, 
naturally,  and  by  vocation,  suggested  the  hand  that  had  de- 
spoiled him ;  how  hope  for  redress,  or  extort  surrender,  from 
such  a  quarter?  Mechanically,  however,  when  the  hour  ar- 
rived to  return  to  his  day's  task,  he  stole  down  the  stairs,  and 
lo,  at  the  very  door  of  the  house,  Bill's  children  were  at  play, 
and  in  the  hand  of  the  eldest  he  recognized  what  he  called  his 
"curril." 

"Your  curril?"  interrupted  St.  John. 

' '  Yes,  curril ;  vot  the  little  uns  bite,  afore  they  gets  their 
teethin'." 

St.  John  smiled,  and  supposing  that  Beck  had  some  time  or 
other  been  puerile  enough  to  purchase  such  a  bauble,  nodded 
to  him  to  continue.  To  seize  upon  the  urchin,  and,  in  spite 
of  kicks,  bites,  shrieks,  or  scratches,  repossess  himself  of  his 
treasure,  was  the  feat  of  a  moment.  The  brat's  clamor  drew 
out  the  father,  and  to  him  Beck  (pocketing  the  coral,  that  its 
golden  bells  might  not  attract  the  more  experienced  eye,  and 
influence  the  more  formidable  greediness,  of  the  paternal 
thief),  loudly,  and  at  first  fearlessly,  appealed.  Him  he 
charged,  and  accused,  and  threatened  with  all  vengeance, 
human  and  Divine.  Then  changing  his  tone  he  implored,  he 
wept,  he  knelt.  As  soon  as  the  startled  cracksman  recovered 
his  astonishment  at  such  audacity  and  comprehended  the 
nature  of  the  charge  against  himself  and  his  family,  he  felt  the 
more  indignant  from  a  strange  and  unfamiliar  consciousness  -of 
innocence.  Seizing  Beck  by  the  nape  of  the  neck,  with  a  dex- 
terous application  of  hand  and  foot,  he  sent  him  spinning  into 
the  kennel 


LUCRETIA.  283 

"Go  to  Jericho,  mud-scraper!"  cried  Bill,  in  a  voice  of 
thunder;  "and  if  ever  thou  sayest  such  a  vopper  agin — 'spar- 
aging  the  characters  of  them  ere  motherless  babes — I'll  seal 
thee  up  in  a  'tato  sack,  and  sell  thee  for  fiv'pence  to  No.  7, 
the  great  body-snatcher.  Take  care  how  I  ever  sets  eyes  agin 
on  thy  hugly  mug!" 

With  that  Bill  clapped-to  the  door,  and  Beck,  frightened  out 
of  his  wits,  crawled  from  the  kennel,  and,  bruised  and  smart- 
ing, crept  to  his  crossing.  But  he  was  unable  to  discharge  his 
duties  that  day ;  his  ill-fed,  miserable  frame  was  too  weak  for 
the  stroke  he  had  received.  Long  before  dusk,  he  sneaked 
away,  and,  dreading  to  return  to  his  lodging,  lest,  since  noth- 
ing now  was  left  worth  robbing  but  his  carcass,  Bill  might  keep 
his  word,  and  sell  that  to  the  body-snatcher,  he  took  refuge 
under  the  only  roof  where  he  felt  he  could  sleep  in  safety. 

And  here  we  must  pause  to  explain.  In  our  first  introduc- 
tion of  Beck,  we  contented  ourselves  with  implying  to  the  in- 
genious and  practised  reader,  that  his  heart  might  still  be  large 
enough  to  hold  something  besides  his  crossing.  Now,  in  one 
of  the  small  alleys  that  have  their  vent  in  the  great  stream  of 
Fleet  Street,  there  dwelt  an  old  widow-woman,  who  eked  out 
her  existence  by  charing:  an  industrious,  drudging  creature, 
whose  sole  occupation  since  her  husband,  the  journeyman 
bricklayer,  fell  from  a  scaffold,  and,  breaking  his  neck,  left  her 
happily  childless,  as  well  as  penniless,  had  been  scrubbing 
stone-floors,  and  cleaning  out  dingy  houses  when  about  to  be 
let — charing,  in  a  word.  And  in  this  vocation  had  she  kept 
body  and  soul  together,  till  a  bad  rheumatism  and  old  age  had 
put  an  end  to  her  utilities,  and  entitled  her  to  the  receipt  of 
two  shillings  weekly  from  parochial  munificence.  Between 
this  old  woman  and  Beck  there  was  a  mysterious  tie — so  mys- 
terious that  he  did  not  well  comprehend  it  himself.  Some- 
times he  called  her  "mammy,"  sometimes  "the  old  crittur." 
But  certain  it  is,  that  to  her  he  was  indebted  for  that  name 
which  he  bore,  to  the  puzzlement  of  St.  Giles's. 

Becky  Carruthers  was  the  name  of  the  old  woman ;  but 
Becky  was  one  of  those  good  creatures  who  are  always  called 
by  their  Christian  names,  and  never  rise  into  the  importance  of 
the  surname,  and  the  dignity  of  "Mistress";  lopping  off  the 
last  syllable  of  the  familiar  appellation,  the  outcast  christened 
himself  "Beck." 

"And,"  said  St.  John,  who  in  the  course  of  question  and 
answer  had  got  thus  far  into  the  marrow  of  the  Sweeper's  nar- 
rative, "is  not  this  good  woman  really  your  mother?" 


284  LUCRETIA. 

"Mother!"  echoed  Beck,  with  disdain;  "no,  I  'as  a  gritter 
mother  nor  she.  Sint  Poll's  is  my  mother.  But  the  hold  crit- 
tur  tuk  care  on  me." 

"I  really  don't  understand  you.  Saint  Paul's  is  your  moth- 
er? How?" 

Beck  shook  his  head  mysteriously,  and  without  answering 
the  question,  resumed  the  tale,  which  we  must  thus  paraphrast- 
ically  continue  to  deliver. 

When  he  was  a  little  more  than  six  years  old  Beck  began  to 
earn  his  own  livelihood,  by  running  errands,  holding  horses, 
scraping  together  pence  and  halfpence.  Betimes,  his  passion 
for  saving  began ;  at  first  with  a  good  and  unselfish  motive, 
that  of  surprising  "mammy"  at  the  week's  end.  But  when 
"mammy,"  who  then  gained  enough  for  herself,  patted  his 
head  and  called  him  good  boy,  and  bade  him  save  for  his  own 
uses,  and  told  him  what  a  great  thing  it  would  be  if  he  could 
lay  by  a  pretty  penny  against  he  was  a  man,  he  turned  miser 
on  his  own  account;  and  the  miserable  luxury  grew  upon  him. 
At  last,  by  the  permission  of  the  police  inspector,  strengthened 
by  that  of  the  owner  of  the  contiguous  house,  he  made  his  great 
step  in  life,  and  succeeded  a  deceased  negro  in  the  dignity  and 
emoluments  of  the  memorable  crossing.  From  that  hour  he  felt 
himself  fulfilling  his  proper  destiny ;  but  poor  Becky,  alas,  had 
already  fallen  into  the  sere  and  yellow  leaf!  With  her  decline, 
her  good  qualities  were  impaired.  She  took  to  drinking — not  to 
positive  intoxication,  but  to  making  herself  "comfortable" — 
and,  to  satisfy  her  craving,  Beck,  waking  betimes  one  morning, 
saw  her  emptying  his  pockets.  Then  he  resolved,  quietly  and 
without  upbraiding  her,  to  remove  to  a  safer  lodging.  To  save 
had  become  the  imperative  necessity  of  his  existence.  But  to  do 
him  justice,  Beck  had  a  glimmering  sense  of  what  was  due  to 
the  "hold  crittur. "  Every  Saturday  evening  he  called  at  her 
house,  and  deposited  with  her  a  certain  sum,  not  large  even  in 
proportion  to  his  earnings,  but  which  seemed  to  the  poor  ig- 
norant miser,  who  grudged  every  farthing  to  himself,  an  enor- 
mous deduction  from  his  total,  and  a  sum  sufficient  for  every 
possible  want  of  humankind  even  to  satiety.  And  now,  in  re- 
turning, despoiled  of  all,  save  the  few  pence  he  had  collected 
that  day,  it  is  but  fair  to  him  to  add  that  not  his  least  bitter 
pang  was  in  the  remembrance  that  this  was  the  only  Saturday 
on  which,  for  the  first  time,  the  weekly  stipend  would  fail.- 

But  so  ill  and  so  wretched  did  he  look  when  he  reached  her 
little  room,  that  "mammy"  forgot  all  thought  of  herself;  and 
when  he  had  told  his  tale,  so  kind  was  her  comforting,  so  un- 


LUCRETIA.  285 

selfish  hci  sympathy,  that  his  heart  smote  nim  for  his  old  par- 
simony, for  his  hard  resentment  at  her  single  act  of  peculation ; 
had  not  she  the  right  to  all  he  made?  But  remorse  and  grief 
alike  soon  vanished  in  the  fever  that  now  seized  him ;  for  sev- 
eral days  he  was  insensible;  and  when  he  recovered  sufficiently 
to  be  aware  of  what  was  around  him,  he  saw  the  widow  seated 
beside  him,  within  four  bare  walls — everything,  except  the  bed 
he  slept  on,  had  been  sold  to  support  him  in  his  illness.  As 
soon  as  he  could  totter  forth,  Beck  hastened  to  his  crossing — 
alas,  it  was  preoccupied!  His  absence  had  led  to  ambitious 
usurpation.  A  one-legged,  sturdy  sailor  had  mounted  his 
throne,  and  wielded  his  sceptre.  The  decorum  of  the  street 
forbade  altercation  to  the  contending  parties;  but  the  sailor 
referred  discussion  to  a  meeting  at  a  flash  house  in  the  Rook- 
ery that  evening.  There,  a  jury  was  appointed,  and  the  case 
opened.  By  the  conventional  laws  that  regulate  this  useful 
community,  Beck  was  still  in  his  rights;  his  reappearance 
sufficed  to  restore  his  claims,  and  an  appeal  to  the  policeman 
would  no  doubt  re-establish  his  authority.  But  Beck  was  still 
so  ill  and  so  feeble,  that  he  had  a  melancholy  persuasion  that 
he  could  not  suitably  perform  the  duties  of  his  office;  and 
when  the  sailor,  not  a  bad  fellow  on  the  whole,  offered  to  pay 
down  on  the  nail  what  really  seemed  a  very  liberal  sum  for 
Beck's  peaceful  surrender  of  his  rights,  the  poor  wretch 
thought  of  the  bare  walls  at  his  "mammy's,"  of  the  long  dreary 
interval  that  must  elapse,  even  if  able  to  work,  before  the  fur- 
niture pawned  could  be  redeemed  by  the  daily  profits  of  his 
post,  and,  with  a  groan,  he  held  out  his  hand,  and  concluded 
the  bargain. 

Creeping  home  to  the  "hold  crittur,"  he  threw  the  purchase- 
money  into  her  lap;  then,  broken-hearted,  and  in  despair,  he 
slunk  forth  again  in  a  sort  of  vague,  dreamy  hope,  that  the 
law,  which  abhors  vagabonds,  would  seize  and  finish  him. 

When  this  tale  was  done,  Percival  did  not  neglect  the  gentle 
task  of  admonition,  which  the  poor  Sweeper's  softened  heart 
and  dull  remorse  made  the  easier.  He  pointed  out,  in  soft 
tones,  how  the  avarice  he  had  indulged  had  been,  perhaps, 
mercifully  chastised ;  and  drew  no  ineloquent  picture  of  the 
vicious  miseries  of  the  confirmed  miser.  Beck  listened  humbly 
and  respectfully,  though  so  little  did  he  understand  of  mercy, 
and  Providence,  and  vice,  that  the  diviner  part  of  the  homily 
was  quite  lost  on  him.  However,  he  confessed  penitently  that 
"the  mattress  had  made  him  vorse  nor  a  beast  to  the  hold  crit- 
tur" ;  and  that  "he  was  cured  of  saving  to  the  end  of  his  days." 


286  LUCRETIA. 

"And  now,"  said  Percival,  "as  you  really  are  not  strong 
enough  to  bear  this  out-of-door  work  (the  winter  coming  on, 
too),  what  say  you  to  entering  my  service?  I  want  some  help 
in  my  stables.  The  work  is  easy  enough ;  and  you  are  used 
to  horses,  you  know,  in  a  sort  of  a  way." 

Beck  hesitated,  and  looked  a  moment  undecided.  At  last, 
he  said,  "Please  your  'onor,  if  I  beant  strong  enough  for  the 
crossin',  I'se  afeard  I'm  too  hailing  to  sarve  you.  And 
vouldn't  I  be  vorse  nor  a  wiper,  to  take  your  vages,  and  not 
vork  for  'em  has  I  hought?" 

"Pooh,  we'll  soon  make  you  strong,  my  man.  Take  my 
advice — don't  let  your  head  run  on  the  crossing.  That  kind 
of  industry  exposes  you  to  bad  company  and  bad  thoughts." 

"That's  vot  it  is,  sir,"  answered  Beck  assentingly,  laying 
his  dexter  forefinger  on  his  sinister  palm. 

"Well,  you  are  in  my  service,  then!  Go  downstairs  now, 
and  get  your  breakfast ;  by  and  by,  you  shall  show  me  your 
'mammy's'  house,  and  we'll  see  what  can  be  done  for  her." 

Beck  pressed  his  hands  to  his  eyes,  trying  hard  not  to  cry ; 
but  it  was  too  much  for  him ;  and  as  the  valet,  who  appeared 
to  Percival's  summons,  led  him  down  the  stairs,  his  sobs  were 
heard  from  attic  to  basement. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

NEWS    FROM    GRABMAN. 

THAT  day,  opening  thus  auspiciously  to  Beck,  was  memor- 
able also  to  other  and  more  prominent  persons  in  this  history. 

Early  in  the  forenoon  a  parcel  was  brought  to  Madame  Dal- 
ibard  which  contained  Ardworth's  already  famous  book,  a 
goodly  assortment  of  extracts  from  the  newspapers  thereon, 
and  the  following  letter  from  the  young  author : 

"You  will  see,  by  the  accompanying  packet,  that  your  coun- 
sels have  had  weight  with  me.  I  have  turned  aside  in  my  slow 
legitimate  career.  I  have,  as  you  desired,  '  made  men  talk  of 
me.'  What  solid  benefit  I  may  reap  from  this,  I  know  not.  I 
shall  not  openly  avow  the  book.  Such  notoriety  cannot  help 
me  at  the  bar.  But,  liber  avi  aniinam  meant — excuse  my  ped- 
antry— I  have  left  my  soul  free  for  a  moment;  I  am  now 
catching  it  back,  to  put  bit  and  saddle  on  again.  I  will  not 
tell  you  how  you  have  disturbed  me ;  how  you  have  stung  me 
into  this  premature  rush  amidst  the  crowd;  how,  after  robbing 
me  of  name  and  father,  you  have  driven  me  to  this  experiment 


LUCRETIA.  287 

with  my  own  mind,  to  see  if  I  was  deceived,  when  I  groaned 
to  myself,  'The  Public  shall  give  you  a  name,  and  Fame  shall 
be  your  mother. '  I  am  satisfied  with  the  experiment.  I  know 
better  now  what  is  in  me ;  and  I  have  regained  my  peace  of 
mind.  If,  in  the  success  of  this  hasty  work,  there  be  that 
which  will  gratify  the  interest  you  so  kindly  take  in  me,  deem 
that  success  your  own;  I  owe  it  to  you — to  your  revelations; 
to  your  admonitions.  I  wait  patiently  your  own  time  for 
further  disclosures;  till  then,  the  wheel  must  work  on,  and  the 
grist  be  ground.  Kind  and  generous  friend,  till  now  I  would 
not  wound  you  by  returning  the  sum  you  sent  me;  nay,  more, 
I  knew  I  should  please  you  by  devoting  part  of  it  to  the  risk  of 
giving  this  essay  to  the  world,  and  so  making  its  good  fortune 
doubly  your  own  work.  Now,  when  the  publisher  smiles,  and 
the  shopmen  bow,  and  I  am  acknowledged  to  have  a  bank  in 
my  brains — now,  you  cannot  be  offended  to  receive  it  back. 
Adieu.  When  my  mind  is  in  train  again,  and  I  feel  my  step 
firm  on  the  old  dull  road,  I  will  come  to  see  you.  Till  then, 
yours — by  what  name?  Open  the  'Biographical  Dictionary,' 
at  hazard,  and  send  me  one." 
"Gray's  Inn." 

Not  at  the  noble  thoughts,  and  the  deep  sympathy  with  man- 
kind, that  glowed  through  that  work,  over  which  Lucretia  now 
tremulously  hurried,  did  she  feel  delight.  All  that  she  recog- 
nized or  desired  to  recognize,  were  those  evidences  of  that 
kind  of  intellect  which  wins  its  way  through  the  world,  and 
which,  strong  and  unmistakable,  rose  up  in  every  page  of  that 
vigorous  logic  and  commanding  style.  The  book  was  soon 
dropped  thus  read :  the  newspaper  extracts  pleased  even  more. 

"This,"  she  said  audibly,  in  the  freedom  of  her  solitude; 
"This  is  the  son  I  asked  for — a  son  in  whom  I  can  rise — in 
whom  I  can  exchange  the  sense  of  crushing  infamy  for  the  old 
delicious  ecstacy  of  pride!  For  this  son  can  I  do  too  much? 
No;  in  what  I  may  do  for  him,  methinks  there  will  be  no  re- 
morse! And  he  calls  his  success  mine — mine!"  Her  nostrils 
dilated,  and  her  front  rose  erect. 

In  the  midst  of  this  exultation,  Varney  found  her,  and  before 
he  could  communicate  the  business  which  had  brought  him,  he 
had  to  listen,  which  he  did  with  the  Secret,  gnawing  envy  that 
every  other  man's  success  occasioned  him,  to  her  haughty  self- 
felicitations. 

He  could  not  resist  saying,  with  a  sneer,  when  she  paused, 
as  if  to  ask  his  sympathy: 

"All  this  is  very  fine,  belle  ntire ;  and  yet  J  should  hardly 


288  LUCRETIA. 

have  thought  that  coarse-featured,  uncouth  limb  of  the  law, 
who  seldom  moves  without  upsetting  a  chair,  never  laughs  but 
the  panes  rattle  in  the  window — I  should  hardly  have  thought 
him  the  precise  person  to  gratify  your  pride,  or  answer  the 
family  ideal  of  a  gentleman  and  a  St.  John." 

"Gabriel,"  said  Lucretia  sternly,  "you  have  a  biting  tongue, 
and  it  is  folly  in  me  to  resent  those  privileges  which  our  fear- 
ful connection  gives  you..  But — this  raillery — " 

"Come,  come,  I  was  wrong — forgive  it!"  interrupted  Var- 
ney,  who,  dreading  nothing  else,  dreaded  much  the  rebuke  of 
his  grim  stepmother. 

"It  is  forgiven,"  said  Lucretia  coldly,  and  with  a  slight 
waive  of  her  hand;  then  she  added,  with  composure: 

"Long  since — even  while  heiress  of  Laughton — I  parted 
with  mere  pride  in  the  hollow  seemings  of  distinction.  Had  I 
not,  should  I  have  stooped  to  William  Mainwaring?  What  I 
then  respected,  amidst  all  the  degradations  I  have  known,  I 
respect  still;  talent,  ambition,  intellect,  and  will.  Do  you 
think  I  would  exchange  these  in  a  son  of  mine,  for  the  mere 
graces  which  a  dancing-master  can  sell  him?  Fear  not?  Let 
us  but  give  wealth  to  that  intellect,  and  the  world  will  see  no 
clumsiness  in  the  movements  that  march  to  its  high  places,  and 
hear  no  discord  in  the  laugh  that  triumphs  over  fools!  But 
you  have  some  news  to  communicate,  or  some  proposal  to 
suggest." 

"I  have  both,"  said  Varney.  "In  the  first  place  ,  I  have  a 
"etter  from  Grabman!" 

Lucretia' s  eyes  sparkled,  and  she  snatched  eagerly  at  the 
letter  her  scn-in-law  drew  forth. 

"Liverpool,  October,  1831. 
"JASON: 

"I  think  I  am  on  the  road  to  success.  Having  first  possessed 
myself  of  the  fact,  commemorated  in  the  parish  register,  of  the 
birth  and  baptism  of  Alfred  Braddell's  son,  for  we  must  pro- 
ceed regularly  in  these  matters,  I  next  set  my  wits  to  work  to 
trace  that  son's  exodus  from  the  paternal  mansion.  I  have 
hunted  up  an  old  woman-servant,  Jane  Prior,  who  lived  with 
the  Braddells.  She  now  thrives  as  a  laundress ;  she  is  a  rank 
puritan,  and  starches  for  the  godly.  She  was  at  first  very  wary 
and  reserved  in  her  communications,  but  by  siding  with  her 
prejudices  and  humors,  and  by  the  intercession  of  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Graves  (of  her  own  persuasion),  T  have  got  her  to  open 
her  lips.  It  seems  that  these  Braddells  lived  very  unhappily; 
the  husband,  a  pious  dissenter,  had  married  a  lady  who  turned 


LUCRETIA.  289 

out  of  a  very  different  practice  and  belief.  Jane  Prior  pitied 
her  master,  and  detested  her  mistress.  Some  circumstances  in 
the  conduct  of  Mrs.  Braddell  made  the  husband,  who  was  then 
in  his  last  illness,  resolve,  from  a  point  of  conscience,  to  save 
his  child  from  what  he  deemed  the  contamination  of  her  pre- 
cepts and  example.  Mrs.  Braddell  was  absent  from  Liverpool, 
on  a  visit,  which  was  thought  very  unfeeling  by  the  husband's 
friends ;  during  this  time  Braddell  was  visited  constantly  by  a 
gentleman  (Mr.  Ardworth),  who  differed  from  him  greatly  in 
some  things,  and  seemed  one  of  the  carnal;  but  with  whom 
agreement  in  politics  (for  they  were  both  great  politicians  and 
republicans)  seems  to  have  established  a  link.  One  evening 
when  Mr.  Ardworth  was  in  the  house,  Jane  Prior,  who  was  the 
only  maid-servant  (for  they  kept  but  two,  anoTone  had  been  just 
discharged),  had  been  sent  out  to  the  apothecary's.  On  her 
return,  Jane  Prior,  going  into  the  nursery,  missed  the  infant ; 
she  thought  it  was  with  her  master,  but  coming  into  his  room, 
Mr.  Braddell  told  her  to  shut  the  door,  informed  her  that  he 
had  entrusted  the  boy  to  Mr.  Ardworth,  to  be  brought  up  in  a 
righteous  and  pious  manner,  and  implored  and  commanded  her 
to  keep  this  a  secret  from  his  wife,  whom  he  was  resolved,  in- 
deed, if  he  lived,  not  to  receive  back  into  his  house.  Braddell, 
however,  did  not  survive  more  than  two  days  this  event.  On 
his  death  Mrs.  Braddell  returned,  but  circumstances  connected 
with  the  symptoms  of  his  malady,  and  a  strong  impression 
which  haunted  himself,  and  with  which  he  had  infected  Jane 
Prior,  that  he  had  been  poisoned,  led  to  a  posthumous  exam- 
ination of  his  remains.  No  trace  of  poison  was,  however,  dis- 
covered, and  suspicions  that  had  been  directed  against  his  wife 
could  not  be  substantiated  by  law ;  still,  she  was  regarded  in 
so  unfavorable  a  light  by  all  who  had  known  them  both,  she 
met  with  such  little  kindness  or  sympathy  in  her  widowhood, 
and  had  been  so  openly  denounced  by  Jane  Prior,  that  it  is  not 
to  be  wondered  at  that  she  left  the  place  as  soon  as  possible. 
The  house,  indeed,  was  taken  from  her,  for  Braddell's  affairs 
were  found  in  such  confusion,  and  his  embarrassments  so  great, 
that  everything  was  seized,  and  sold  off;  nothing  left  for  the 
widow,  nor  for  the  child  (if  the  last  were  ever  discovered). 

"As  may  be  supposed,  Mrs.  Braddell  was  at  first  very  clam- 
orous for  the  lost  child,  but  Jane  Prior  kept  her  promise,  and 
withheld  all  clue  to  it.  And  Mrs.  Braddell  was  forced  to  quit 
the  place,  in  ignorance  what  had  become  of  it ;  since  then  no 
one  had  heard  of  her,  but  Jane  Prior  says  that  she  is  sure 
'she  had  come  to  no  good.'  Now,  though  much  of  this  may 


290  LUCRETIA. 

be,  no  doubt,  familiar  to  you,  dear  Jason,  it  is  right,  when  I  put 
the  evidence  before  you,  that  you  should  know  and  guard 
against  what  to  expect;  and  in  any  trial  at  law  to  prove  the 
identity  of  Vincent  Braddell,  Jane  Prior  must  be  a  principal 
witness,  and  will  certainly  not  spare  poor  Mrs.  Braddell.  For 
the  main  point,  however,  viz.,  the  suspicion  of  poisoning  her 
husband,  the  inquest  and  verdict  may  set  aside  all  alarm. 

"My  next  researches  have  been  directed  on  the  track  of 
Walter  Ard worth,  after  leaving  Liverpool,  which  (I  find  by  the 
books  at  the  inn  where  he  lodged  and  was  known)  he  did  in 
debt  to  the  innkeeper,  the  very  night  he  received  the  charge 
of  the  child.  Here,  as  yet,  I  am  in  fault ;  but  I  have  ascer- 
tained that  a  woman,  one  of  the  sect,  of  the  name  of  Joplin,  liv- 
ing in  a  village  fifteen  miles  from  the  town,  had  the  care  of 
some  infant,  to  replace  her  own,  which  she  had  lost.  I  am 
going  to  this  village  to-morrow,  But  I  cannot  expect  much  in 
that  quarter,  since  it  would  seem  at  variance  with  your  more 
probable  belief  that  Walter  Ardworth  took  the  child  at  once  to 
Mr.  Fielden's.  However,  you  see  I  have  already  gone  very  far 
in  the  evidence;  the  birth  of  the  child — the  delivery  of  the 
child  to  Ardworth.  I  see  a  very  pretty  case  already  before  us, 
and  I  do  not  now  doubt  for  a  moment  of  ultimate  success. 

"Yours,  ,,-v,-   ^  ,, 

N.  GRABMAN. 

Lucretia  read  steadily,  and  with  no  change  of  countenance, 
to  the  last  line  of  the  letter.  Then,  as  she  put  it  down  on  the 
table  before  her,  she  repeated,  with  a  tone  of  deep  exultation : 
"No  doubt  of  ultimate  success." 

"You  do  not  fear  to  brave  all  which  the  spite  of  this  woman, 
Jane  Prior,  may  prompt  her  to  say  against  you?"  asked  Varney. 

Lucretia's  brow  fell.  "It  is  another  torture,"  she  said, 
"even  to  own  my  marriage  with  a  lowborn  hypocrite.  But  I 
can  endure  it  for  the  cause,"  she  added,  more  haughtily. 
"Nothing  can  really  hurt  me  in  these  obsolete  aspersions,  and 
this  vague  scandal.  The  inquest  acquitted  me,  and  the  world 
will  be  charitable  to  the  mother  of  him  who  has  wealth  and 
rank,  and  that  vigorous  genius  which,  if  proved  in  obscurity, 
shall  command  opinion  in  renown." 

"You  are  now,  then,  disposed  at  once  to  proceed  to  action. 
For  Helen,  all  is  prepared — the  insurances  settled — the  trust 
for  which  I  hold  them  on  your  behalf  is  signed  and  completed. 
But  for  Percival  St.  John,  I  await  your  directions.  Will  it  be 
best  first  to  prove  your  son's  identity,  or  when  morally  satisfied 
that  that  proof  is  forthcoming,  to  remove  betimes  both  the  bar' 


LUCRETIA.  291 

riers  to  his  inheritance.  If  we  tarry  for  the  last,  the  removal 
of  St.  John  becomes  more  suspicious  than  it  does  at  a  time 
when  you  have  no  visible  interest  in  his  death.  Besides,  now 
we  have  the  occasion,  or  can  make  it — can  we  tell  how  long  it 
will  last?  Again,  it  will  seem  more  natural  that  the  lover 
should  break  his  heart  in  the  first  shock  of — " 

"Ay,"  interrupted  Lucretia,  "I  would  have  all  thought  and 
contemplation  of  crime  at  an  end ;  when,  clasping  my  boy  to 
my  heart,  I  can  say:  'Your  mother's  inheritance  is  yours.'  I 
would  not  have  a  murder  before  my  eyes,  when  they  should 
look  only  on  the  fair  prospects  beyond.  I  would  cast  back  all 
the  hideous  images  of  horror  into  the  rear  of  memory,  so  that 
hope  may  for  once  visit  me  again  undisturbed.  No,  Gabriel, 
were  I  to  speak  forever,  you  would  comprehend  not  what  I 
grasp  at  in  a  son!  It  is  at  a  future!  Rolling  a  stone  over  the 
sepulchre  of  the  past — it  is  as  a  resurrection  into  a  fresh 
world — it  is  to  know  again  one  emotion  not  impure,  one  scheme 
not  criminal.  It  is,  in  a  word,  to  cease  to  be  as  myself,  to 
think  in  another  soul,  to  hear  my  heart  beat  in  another  form. 
All  this  I  covet  in  a  son.  And  when  all  this  should  smile  be- 
fore me  in  his  image,  shall  I  be  plucked  back  again  into  my 
hell,  by  the  consciousness  that  a  new  crime  is  to  be  done? 
No;  wade  quickly  through  the  passage  of  blood,  that  we  may 
dry  our  garments,  and  breathe  the  air  upon  the  bank  where 
sun  shines  and  flowers  bloom!" 

"So  be  it,  then!"  said  Varney.  "Before  the  week  is  out,  I 
must  be  under  the  same  roof  as  St.  John.  Before  this  week  is 
out,  why  not  all  meet  in  the  old  halls  of  Laughton?" 

"Ay,  in  the  halls  of  Laughton!  On  the  hearth  of  our  ances- 
tors the  deeds  done  for  our  descendents  look  less  dark!" 

"And  first,  to  prepare  the  way,  Helen  should  sicken  in 
these  fogs  of  London,  and  want  change  of  air." 

"Place  before  me  that  desk.  I  will  read  William  Mainwar- 
ing's  letters  again  and  again,  till  from  every  shadow  in  the  past 
a  voice  comes  forth:  'The  child  of  your  rival,  your  betrayer, 
your  undoer,  stands  between  the  daylight  and  your  son!'  " 

CHAPTER  XV. 

VARIETIES. 

LEAVING  the  guilty  pair  to  concert  their  schemes,  and  in- 
dulge their  atrocious  hopes,  we  accompany  Percival  to  the 
hovel  occupied  by  Becky  Carruthers. 


292  LUCRETIA. 

On  following  Beck  into  the  room  she  rented,  Percival  was 
greatly  surprised  to  find,  seated  comfortably  on  the  only  chair 
to  be  seen,  no  less  a  person  than  the  worthy  Mrs.  Mivers. 
This  good  lady,  in  her  spinster  days,  had  earned  her  own  bread 
by  hard  work.  She  had  captivated  Mr.  Mivers  when  but  a 
simple  housemaid  in  the  service  of  one  of  his  relations.  And 
while  this  humble  condition  in  her  earlier  life  may  account  for 
much  in  her  language  and  manners  which  is  nowadays  incon- 
sonant with  the  breeding  and  education  that  characterize  the 
wives  of  opulent  tradesmen,  so  perhaps  the  remembrance  of  it 
made  her  unusually  susceptible  to  the  duties  of  chanty.  For 
there  is  no  class  of  society  more  prone  to  pity  and  relieve  the 
poor  than  females  in  domestic  service ;  and  this  virtue  Mrs. 
Mivers  had  not  laid  aside,  as  many  do,  so  soon  as  she  was  in  a 
condition  to  practise  it  with  effect.  Mrs.  Mivers  blushed  scar- 
let on  being  detected  in  her  visit  of  kindness,  and  hastened  to 
excuse  herself  by  the  information  that  she  belonged  to  a  society 
of  ladies  for  "the  Bettering  the  Condition  of  the  Poor,"  and 
that  having  just  been  informed  of  Mrs.  Becky's  destitute  state, 
she  had  looked  in  to  recommend  her — a  ventilator! 

"It's  quite  shocking  to  see  how  little  the  poor  attends  to  the 
proper  wentilating  their  houses.  No  wonder  there's  so  much 
typus  about!"  said  Mrs.  Mivers.  "And  for  one-and-six- 
pence,  we  can  introduce  a  stream  of  hair  that  goes  up  the 
chimbly,  and  carries  away  all  that  it  finds!" 

"I  'umbly  thank  you,  marm,"  said  the  poor  bundle  of  rags 
that  went  by  the  name  of  "Becky,"  as  with  some  difficulty  she 
contrived  to  stand  in  the  presence  of  the  benevolent  visitor; 
"but,  I'm  much  afeared,  that  the  hair  will  make  the  rheumatiz 
werry  rumpatious!" 

"On  the  contrary — on  the  contrary,"  said  Mrs.  Mivers  tri- 
umphantly, and  she  proceeded  philosophically  to  explain, 
that  all  the  fevers,  aches,  pains,  and  physical  ills  that  harass 
the  poor  arise  from  the  want  of  an  air-trap  in  the  chimney, 
and  a  perforated  network  in  the  window-pane.  Becky  listened 
patiently ;  for  Mrs.  Mivers  was  only  a  philosopher  in  her  talk, 
and  she  had  proved  herself  anything  but  a  philosopher  in  ner 
actions,  by  the  spontaneous  present  of  five  shillings,  and  the 
promise  of  a  basket  of  victuals,  and  some  good  wine  to  keep 
the  cold  wind  she  invited  to  the  apartment  out  of  the  stomach. 

Percival  imitated  the  silence  of  Becky,  whose  spirit  was  so 
bowed  down  by  an  existence  of  drudgery,  that  not  even  the 
sight  of  her  foster-son  could  draw  her  attention  from  the 
respect  due  to  a  superior. 


LUCRETIA.  293 

"And  is  this  poor  cranky-looking  cretur  your  son,  Mrs. 
Becky?' '  said  the  visitor,  struck  at  last  by  the  appearance  of 
the  ex-Sweeper  as  he  stood  at  the  threshold,  hat  in  hand. 

"No,  indeed,  marm,"  answered  Becky;  "I  often  says,  says 
I,  'Child,  you  be  the  son  of  Sint  Poll's.'  ' 

Beck  smiled  proudly. 

"It  was  agin  the  grit  church,  marm — but  it's  a  long  story. 
My  poor  good  man  had  not  a  long  been  dead — as  good  a  man 
as  ever  lived,  marm,"  and  Becky  dropped  a  curtsey;  "he  fell 
off  a  scaffold,  and  pitched  right  on  his  'ead,  or  I  should  not 
have  come  on  the  parish,  marm,  and  that's  the  truth  on't!" 

"Very  well,  I  shall  call  and  hear  all  about  it — a  sad  case,  I 
dare  say.  You  see,  your  husband  should  have  subscribed  to 
our  Loan  Society,  and  then  they'd  have  found  a  'andsome 
coffin,  and  given  three  pounds  to  his  widder.  But  the  poor 
are  so  benighted  in  these  parts.  I'm  sure,  sir,  I  can't  guess 
what  brought  you  here? — but  that's  no  business  of  mine.  And 
how  are  all  at  Old  Brompton?;'  Here  Mrs.  Mivers  bridled 
indignantly.  "There  was  a  time  when  Miss  Main  waring  was 
very  glad  to  come  and  chat  with  Mr.  M.  and  myself;  but  now 
'rum  has  riz,'  as  the  saying  is;  not  but  what  I  dare  say  it's  not 
her  fault,  poor  thing !  That  stiff  aunt  of  hers — she  need  not 
look  so  high — pride  and  poverty,  forsooth!" 

While  delivering  these  conciliatory  sentences,  Mrs.  Mivers 
had  gathered  up  her  gown,  and  was  evidently  in  the  bustle  of 
departure.  As  she  now  nodded  to  Becky,  Percival  stepped 
up,  and,  with  his  irresistible  smile,  offered  her  his  arm.  Much 
surprised,  and  much  flattered,  Mrs.  Mivers  accepted  it.  As 
she  did  so,  he  gently  detained  her,  while  he  said  to  Becky : 

"My  good  friend,  I  have  brought  you  the  poor  lad  to  whom 
you  have  been  a  mother,  to  tell  you  that  good  deeds  find  their 
reward  sooner  or  later.  As  for  him,  make  yourself  easy;  he 
will  inform  you  of  the  new  step  he  has  taken ;  and  for  you, 
good,  kind-hearted  creature,  thank  the  boy  you  brought  up,  if 
your  old  age  shall  be  made  easy  and  cheerful.  Now,  Beck, 
silly  lad,  go  and  tell  all  to  your  nurse!  Take  care  of  this  step, 
Mrs.  Mivers." 

As  soon  as  he  was  in  the  street,  Percival,  who,  if  amused  at 
the  ventilator,  had  seen  the  five  shillings  gleam  on  Becky's 
palm,  and  felt  that  he  had  found  under  the  puce-colored  gown 
a  good  woman's  heart  to  understand  him,  gave  Mrs.  Mivers  a 
short  sketch  of  poor  Beck's  history  and  misfortunes,  and  so 
contrived  to  interest  her  in  behalf  of  the  nurse,  that  she  will- 
ingly promised  to  become  Percival's  almoner,  to  execute  hit 


*94  LUCRETIA. 

commission,  to  improve  the  interior  of  Becky's  abode,  and  dis- 
tribute weekly  the  liberal  stipend  he  proposed  to  settle  on  the 
old  widow.  They  had  grown,  indeed,  quite  friendly  and  inti- 
mate, by  the  time  he  reached  the  smart  plate-glazed  mahogany- 
colored  facade,  within  which  the  flourishing  business  of  Mr. 
Mivers  was  carried  on ;  and  when,  knocking  at  the  private  door, 
promptly  opened  by  a  lemon-colored  page,  she  invited  him  up- 
stairs, it  so  chanced  that  the  conversation  had  slid  off  to  Helen, 
and  Percival  was  sufficiently  interested  to  bow  assent,  and  to 
enter. 

Though  all  the  way  up  the  stairs,  Mrs.  Mivers,  turning  back 
at  every  other  step,  did  her  best  to  impress  upon  her  young 
visitor's  mind  the  important  fact  that  they  kept  their  house- 
hold establishment  at  their  "wilier,"  and  that  their  apartments 
in  Fleet  Street  were  only  a  "conwenience" — the  store  set  by  the 
worthy  housewife  upon  her  goods  and  chattels  was  sufficiently 
visible  in  the  drugget  that  threaded  its  narrow  way  up  the  gay 
Brussels  stair-carpet,  and  in  certain  layers  of  paper,  which  pro- 
tected from  the  profanation  of  immediate  touch  the  mahogany 
hand-rail.  And  nothing  could  exceed  the  fostering  care  ex- 
hibited in  the  drawing-room,  when  the  door  thrown  open 
admitted  a  view  of  its  damask  moreen  curtains,  pinned  back 
from  such  impertinent  sunbeams  as  could  force  their  way 
through  the  foggy  air  of  the  east  into  the  windows,  and  the  ells 
of  yellow  muslin  that  guarded  the  frames,  at  least,  of  a  collec- 
tion of  colored  prints,  and  two  kit-kat  portraitures  of  Mr. 
Mivers  and  his  lady,  from  the  perambulations  of  the  flies. 

But  Percival' s  view  of  this  interior  was  somewhat  impeded 
by  his  portly  guide,  who,  uttering  a  little  exclamation  of  sur- 
prise, stood  motionless  on  the  threshold,  as  she  perceived  Mr. 
Mivers  seated  by  the  hearth  in  close  conference  with  a  gentle- 
man whom  she  had  never  seen  before.  At  that  hour  it  was  so 
rare  an  event  in  the  life  of  Mr.  Mivers  to  be  found  in  the 
drawing-room,  and  that  he  should  have  an  acquaintance  un- 
known to  his  helpmate  was  a  circumstance  so  much  rarer  still, 
that  Mrs.  Mivers  may  well  be  forgiven  for  keeping  St.  John 
standing  at  the  door  till  she  had  recovered  her  amaze. 

Meanwhile,  Mr.  Mivers  rose  in  some  confusion,  and  was  ap- 
parently about  to  introduce  his  guest,  when  that  gentleman 
coughed  and  pinched  the  host's  arm  significantly.  Mr.  Mivers 
coughed  also,  and  stammered  out:  "A  gentleman,  Mrs.  M. — 
a  friend  ;  stay  with  us  a  day  or  two.  Much  honored — hum!" 

Mrs.  Mivers  stared  and  curtseyed,  and  stared  again.  But 
there  was  an  open,  good-humored  smile  in  the  face  of  the  visi- 


LUCRETIA.  295 

tor,  as  he  advanced  and  took  her  hand,  that  attracted  a  heart 
very  easily  conciliated.  Seeing  that  that  was  no  moment  for 
further  explanation,  she  plumped  herself  into  a  seat,  and  said: 

"But  bless  us  and  save  us,  I  am  keeping  you  standing,  Mr. 
St.  John!" 

"St.  John!"  repeated  the  visitor,  with  a  vehemence  that 
startled  Mrs.  Mivers. 

"Your  name  is  St.  John,  sir — related  to  the  St.  Johns  of 
Laughton ! " 

"Yes,  indeed,"  answered  Percival,  with  his  shy,  arch 
smile,  "Laughton  at  present  has.  no  worthier  owner  than 
myself." 

The  gentleman  made  two  strides  to- Percival,  and  shook  him 
heartily  by  the  hand. 

"This  is  pleasant,  indeed!"  he  exclaimed.  "You  must  ex- 
cuse my  freedom ;  but  I  knew  well  poor  old  Sir  Miles,  and  my 
heart  warms  at  the  sight  of  his  representative." 

Percival  glanced  at  his  new  acquaintance,  and  on  the  whole 
was  prepossessed  in  his  favor.  He  seemed  somewhere  on  the 
sunnier  side  of  fifty,  with  that  superb  yellow  bronze  of  com- 
plexion which  betokens  long  residence  under  eastern  skies. 
Deep  wrinkles  near  the  eyes,  and  a  dark  circle  round  them, 
spoke  of  cares  and  fatigue,  and  perhaps  dissipation.  But  he 
had  evidently  a  vigor  of  constitution  that  had  borne  him  passably 
through  all;  his  frame  was  wiry  and  nervous;  his  eye  bright 
and  full  of  life;  and  there  was  that  abrupt,  unsteady,  mercurial 
restlessness  in  his  movements  and  manner,  which  usually  ac- 
companies the  man  whose  sanguine  temperament  prompts  him 
to  concede  to  the  impulse,  and  who  is  blessed  or  cursed  with  a 
superabundance  of  energy,  according  as  circumstance  may  favor 
or  judgment  correct,  that  equivocal  gift  of  constitution. 

Percival  said  something  appropriate  in  reply  to  so  much  cor- 
diality paid  to  the  account  of  the  Sir  Miles  whom  he  had  never 
seen,  and  seated  himself,  coloring  slightly  under  the  influence 
of  the  fixed,  pleased,  and  earnest  look  still  bent  upon  him. 

Searching  for  something  else  to  say,  Percival  asked  Mrs. 
Mivers  if  she  had  lately  seen  John  Ardworth. 

The  guest,  who  had  just  reseated  himself,  turned  his  chair 
round  at  that  question  with  such  vivacity,  that  Mrs.  Mivers 
heard  it  crack.  Her  chairs  were  not  meant  for  such  usage.  A 
shade  fell  over  her  rosy  countenance  as  she  replied: 

"No,  indeed  (please,  sir,  them  chairs  is  brittle)!  No;  he 
is  like  Madam  at  Brompton,  and  seldom  condescends  to  favor 
us  now.  It  was  but  last  Sunday  we  asked  him  to  dinner.  J 


296  LUCRETIA. 

am  sure  he  need  not  turn  up  his  nose  at  our  roast  beef  and 
pudding!" 

Here  Mr.  Mivers  was  taken  with  a  violent  fit  of  coughing, 
which  drew  off  his  wife's  attention.  She  was  afraid  he  had 
taken  cold. 

The  stranger  took  out  a  large  snuff-box,  inhaled  a  long  pinch 
of  snuff,  and  said  to  St.  John : 

"This  Mr.  John  Ardworth,  a  pert  enough  Jackanapes,  I  sup- 
pose— a  limb  of  the  law,  eh?" 

"Sir,"  said  Percival  gravely;  "John  Ardworth  is  my  particu- 
lar friend.  It  is  clear  that  you  know  very  little  of  him." 

"That's  true,"  said  the  stranger;  "  'pon  my  life,  that's  very 
true.  But  I  suppose  he's  like  all  lawyers,  cunning  and  tricky, 
conceited  and  supercilious,  full  of  prejudice  and  cant,  and  a  red- 
hot  Tory  into  the  bargain.  I  know  them,  sir — I  know  them!" 

"Well,"  answered  St.  John,  half-gayly,  half-angrily,  "your 
general  experience  serves  you  very  little  here;  for  Ardworth  is 
exactly  the  opposite  of  all  you  have  described." 

"Even  in  politics?" 

"Why,  I  fear  he  is  half  a  Radical;  certainly  more  than  a 
Whig,"  answered  St.  John,  rather  mournfully;  for  his  own 
theories  were  all  the  other  way,  notwithstanding  his  unpatriotic 
forgetfulness  of  them,  in  his  offer  to  assist  Ardworth's  entrance 
into  Parliament. 

"I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it,"  cried  th?  stranger,  again  taking 
snuff.  "And  this  Madame  at  Brompton — perhaps  I  know  her 
a  little  better  than  I  do  young  Mr.  Ardworth — Mrs.  Brad — I 
mean  Madame  Dalibard!"  and  the  stranger  glanced  at  Mr. 
Mivers,  who  was  slowly  recovering  from  some  vigorous  slaps 
on  the  back,  administered  to  him  by  his  wife,  as  a  counter- 
irritant  to  the  cough.  "Is  it  true  that  she  has  lost  the  use  of 
her  limbs?" 

Percival  shook  his  head. 

"And  takes  care  of  poor  Helen  Mainwaring,  the  orphan? 
Well,  well!  That  looks  amiable  enough.  I  must  see — I  must 
see ! ' ' 

"Who  shall  I  say  inquired  after  her,  when  I  see  Madame 
Dalibard?"  asked  Percival,  with  some  curiosity. 

"Who?  Oh,  Mr.  Tomkins.  She  will  not  recollect  him, 
though,"  and  the  stranger  laughed,  and  Mr.  Mivers  laughed, 
too ;  and  Mrs.  Mivers,  who,  indeed,  always  laughed  when  other 
people  laughed,  laughed  also.  So  Percival  thought  he  ought  to 
laugh  for  the  sake  of  good  company,  and  all  laughed  together, 
as.  he  arose  and  took  leave, 


LtiCkfcfiA.  29^ 

He  had  not,  however,  got  far  from  the  house,  on  his  way  to 
his  cabriolet,  which  he  had  left  by  Temple  Bar,  when,  some- 
what to  his  surprise,  he  found  Mr.  Tomkins  at  his  elbow. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  St.  John,  but  I  have  only  just  re- 
turned to  England,  and  on  such  occasions  a  man  is  apt  to  seem 
curious.  This  young  lawyer;  you  see  the  elder  Ardworth  (a 
good-for-nothing  scamp!)  was  a  sort  of  friend  of  mine — not 
exactly  friend,  indeed,  for,  by  Jove,  I  think  he  was  a  worse 
friend  to  me  than  he  was  to  anybody  else ;  still  I  had  a  foolish 
interest  for  him,  and  should  be  glad  to  hear  something  more 
about  any  one  bearing  his  name,  than  I  can  coax  out  of  that 
droll  little  linen  draper.  You  are  really  intimate  with  young 
Ardworth,  eh?" 

"Intimate!     Poor  fellow,  he  will  not  let  anyone  be  that' 
He  works  too  hard  to  be  social.     But  I  love  him  sincerely 
and  I  admire  him  beyond  measure." 

"The  dog  has  industry,  then — that's  good.  And  does  he 
make  debts,  like  that  rascal,  Ardworth,  senior?" 

"Really,  sir,  I  must  say,  this  tone  with  respect  to  Mr.  Ard- 
worth's  father — " 

"What  the  devil,  sir!  Do  you  take  the  father's  part,  as  well 
as  the  son's?" 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  Mr.  Ardworth,  senior,"  said 
Percival,  pouting;  "but  I  do  know  that  my  friend  would  not 
allow  any  one  to  speak  ill  of  his  father  in  his  presence ;  and  I 
beg  you,  sir,  to  consider,  that  whatever  would  offend  him  must 
offend  me." 

"Gad's  my  life!  He's  the  luckiest  young  rogue  to  have  such 
a  friend.  Sir,  I  wish  you  a  very  good  day." 

Mr.  Tomkins  took  off  his  hat,  bowed,  and  passing  St.  John 
with  a  rapid  step,  was  soon  lost  to  his  eye  amongst  the  crowd 
hurrying  westward. 

But  our  business  being  now  rather  with  him  than  Percival, 
we  leave  the  latter  to  mount  his  cabriolet,  and  we  proceed  with 
Mr.  Mivers's  mercurial  guest  on  his  eccentric  way  through  the 
throng. 

There  was  an  odd  mixture  of  thoughtful  abstraction  and 
quick  observation  in  the  soliloquy  in  which  this  gentleman  in- 
dulged, as  he  walked  briskly  on. 

"A  pretty  young  spark,  that  St.  John!  A  look  of  his  father, 
but  handsomer,  and  less  affected.  I  like  him.  Fine  shop 
that — very !  London  wonderfully  improved.  A  hookah  in 
that  window!  God  bless  me! — a  real  hookah!  This  is  all 
very  good  news  about  that  poor  boy — very.  After  all,  he  is 


298  LUCRET1A. 

not  to  biame  if  his  mother  was  such  a  damnable — I  must  con- 
trive to  see  and  judge  of  him  myself  as  soon  as  possible.  Can't 
trust  to  others — too  sharp  for  that  !  What  an  ugly  dog  that 
is,  looking  after  me !  It  is  certainly  a  bailiff.  Hang  it!  What 
do  I  care  for  bailiffs?  Hem — hem ! "  And  the  gentleman  thrust 
his  hands  into  his  pockets,  and  laughed,  as  the  jingle  of  coin 
reached  his  ear  through  the  din  without.  "Well,  I  must  make 
haste  to  decide ;  for,  really  there  is  a  very  troublesome  piece 
of  business  before  me.  Plague  take  her!  What  can  have  be- 
come of  the  woman?  I  shall  have  to  hunt  out  a  sharp  lawyer. 
But  John's  a  lawyer  himself.  No — 'attorneys,  I  suppose,  are 
the  men.  Gad!  They  were  sharp  enough  when  they  had 
to  hunt  me!  What's  that  great  bill  on  the  wall  about?  'Down 
with  the  Lords.'  Pooh,  pooh!  Master  John  Bull,  you  love 
Lords  a  great  deal  too  much  for  that.  A  prettyish  girl !  Eng- 
lish women  are  very  good-looking,  certainly.  That  Lucretia — . 
what  shall  I  do,  if — Ah,  time  enough  to  think  of  her,  when  I 
have  got  over  that  mighty  stiff  if/" 

In  such  cogitations  and  mental  remarks  our  traveller  whiled 
away  the  time,  till  he  found  himself  in  Piccadilly.  There,  a 
publisher's  shop  (and  he  had  that  keen  eye  for  shops  which 
betrays  the  stranger  in  London),  with  its  new  publications  ex- 
posed at  the  window  attracted  his  notice.  Conspicuous  amongst 
the  rest  was  the  open  title-page  of  a  book,  at  the  foot  of  which 
was  placed  a  placard,  with  the  enticing  words:  "FOURTH  EDI- 
TION JUST  OUT,"  in  red  capitals.  The  title  of  the  work  struck 
his  irritable,  curious  fancy ;  he  walked  into  the  shop,  asked  for 
the  volume,  and  while  looking  over  the  contents,  with  muttered 
ejaculations:  "Good!  Capital!  Why  this  reminds  one  of 
HorneTooke!  What's  the  price?  Very  dear — -must  have  it 
though — must.  Ha!  ha!  home- thrust  there!"  While  thus 
turning  over  the  leaves,  and  rending  them  asunder  with  his  fore- 
finger, regardless  of  the  paper-cutter  extended  to  him  by  the 
shopman,  a  gentleman  pushing  by  him,  asked  if  the  publisher 
was  at  home ;  and  as  the  shopman,  bowing  very  low,  answered ; 
"Yes,"  the  new-comer  darted  into  a  little  recess  behind  the 
shop.  Mr.  Tomkins,  who  had  looked  up  very  angrily  on  being 
jostled  so  unceremoniously,  started  and  changed  color,  when  he 
saw  the  face  of  the  offender.  "Saints  in  heaven!"  he  mur- 
mured almost  audibly  ;  "what  a  look  of  that  woman!  And 
yet — no — it  is  gone!" 

"Who  is  that  gentleman?"  he  asked  abruptly,  as  he  paid 
for  his  book. 

The  shopman  smiled,  but  answered:    "I  don't  know,  sir."    . 


UiCRETiA. 

"That's  a  lie!  You  would  never  bow  so  low  to  a  man  you 
did  not  know! " 

The  shopman  smiled  again.  "Why,  sir,  there  are  many  who 
come  to  this  house  who  don't  wish  us  to  know  them." 

"Ah,  I  understand!  You  are  political  publishers — afraid  of 
libels,  I  dare  say.  Always  the  same  thing  in  this  cursed  coun- 
try, and  then  they  tell  us  we  are  'free'!  So  I  suppose  that 
gentleman  has  written  something  William  Pitt  does  not  like. 
But,  William  Pitt — ha — he's  dead! — very  true,  so  he  is! 
Sir,  this  little  book  seems  most  excellent;  but,  in  my  time,  a 
man  would  have  been  sent  to  Newgate  for  printing  it." 

While  thus  running  on,  Mr.  Tomkins  had  edged  himself 
pretty  close  to  the  recess  within  which  the  last  comer  had  dis- 
appeared ;  and  there,  seated  on  a  high  stool,  he  contrived  to 
read  and  to  talk  at  the  same  time,  but  his  eye  and  his  ear  were 
both  turned  every  instant  towards  the  recess. 

The  shopman,  little  suspecting  that  in  so  very  eccentric,  gar- 
rulous a  person,  he  was  permitting  a  spy  to  encroach  upon  the 
secrets  of  the  house,  continued  to  make  up  sundry  parcels  of 
the  new  publication  which  had  so  enchanted  his  customer, 
while  he  expatiated  on  the  prodigious  sensation  the  book  had 
created;  and  while  the  customer  himself  had  already  caught 
enough  of  the  low  conversation  within  the  recess  to  be  aware 
that  the  author  of  the  book  was  the  very  person  who  had  so 
roused  his  curiosity. 

Not  till  that  gentleman,  followed  to  the  door  by  the  polite 
publisher,  had  quitted  the  shop,  did  Mr.  Tomkins  put  his 
volume  in  his  pocket,  and, with  a  familiar  nod  at  the  shopman, 
take  himself  off. 

He  was  scarcely  in  the  street  when  he  saw  Percival  St.  John 
leaning  out  of  his  cabriolet,  and  conversing  with  the  author  he 
had  discovered.  He  halted  a  moment  irresolute,  but  the  young 
man,  in  whom  our  reader  recognizes  John  Ardworth,  declin- 
ing St.  John's  invitation  to  accompany  him  to  Brompton,  re- 
sumed his  way  through  the  throng;  the  cabriolet  drove  on; 
and  Mr.  Tomkins,  though  with  a  graver  mien,  and  a  steadier 
step,  continued  his  desultory  rambles.  Meanwhile  John  Ard- 
worth strode  gloomily  back  to  his  lonely  chamber. 

There,  throwing  himself  on  the  well-worn  chair  before  the 
crowded  desk,  he  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  for  some 
minutes  he  felt  all  that  profound  despondency,  peculiar  to 
those  who  have  won  fame,  to  add  to  the  dark  volume  of  ex- 
perience the  conviction  of  fame's  nothingness.  For  some  min- 
utes he  felt  an  illiberal  and  ungrateful  envy  of  St.  John — so 


LUCRETIA. 

fair,  so  light-hearted,  so  favored  by  fortune,  so  rich  in  friends, 
in  a  mother's  love,  and  in  Helen's  half-plighted  troth.  And 
he,  from  his  very  birth,  cut  off  from  the  social  ties  of  blood ;  no 
mother's  kiss  to  reward  the  toils,  or  gladden  the  sports,  of  child- 
hood; no  father's  cheering  word  up  the  steep  hill  of  man !  And 
Helen,  for  whose  sake  he  had  so  often,  when  his  heart  grew 
weary,  nerved  himself  again  to  labor,  saying:  "Let  me  be  rich, 
let  me  be  great,  and  then  I  will  dare  to  tell  Helen  that  I  love 
her!" — Helen  smiling  upon  another,  unconscious  of  his  pangs! 
What  could  fame  bestow  in  compensation?  What  matter  that 
strangers  praised,  and  the  babble  of  the  world's  running  stream 
lingered  its  brief  moment  round  the  pebble  in  its  way.  In  the 
bitterness  of  his  mood,  he  was  unjust  to  his  rival.  All  that 
exquisite,  but  half-concealed,  treasure  of  imagination  and 
thought,  which  lay  beneath  the  surface  of  Helen's  childlike 
smile,  he  believed  that  he  alone — he,  soul  of  power  and  son  of 
.genius,  was  worthy  to  discover  and  to  prize.  In  the  pride  not 
unfrequent  with  that  kingliest  of  all  aristocracies,  the  Chiefs  of 
Intellect,  he  forgot  the  grandeur  which  invests  the  attributes 
of  the  heart ;  forgot  that,  in  the  lists  of  love,  the  heart  is  at 
least  the  equal  of  the  mind.  In  the  reaction  that  follows  great 
excitement,  Ardworth  had  morbidly  felt,  that  day,  his  utter 
solitude ;  felt  it  in  the  streets  through  which  he  had  passed,  in 
the  home  to  which  he  had  returned — the  burning  tears,  shed 
for  the  first  time  since  childhood,  forced  themselves  through 
his  clasped  fingers.  At  length  he  rose,  with  a  strong  effort  at 
self-mastery,  some  contempt  of  his  weakness,  and  much  remorse 
at  his  ungrateful  envy.  He  gathered  together  the  soiled  manu- 
script and  dingy  proofs  of  his  book,  and  thrust  them  through 
the  grimy  bars  of  his  grate ;  then,  opening  his  desk,  he  drew 
out  a  small  packet,  with  tremulous  fingers,  unfolding  paper 
after  paper,  and  gazed,  with  eyes  still  moistened,  on  the  relics 
kept  till  then,  in  the  devotion  of  the  only  sentiment  inspired 
by  Eros  that  had  ever,  perhaps,  softened  his  iron  nature. 
These  were  two  notes  from  Helen,  some  violets  she  had  once 
given  him,  and  a  little  purse  she  had  knitted  for  him  (with  a 
playful  prophecy  of  future  fortunes),  when  he  had  last  left  the 
vicarage.  Nor  blame  him,  ye  who  with  more  habitual  romance 
of  temper,  and  richer  fertility  of  imagination,  can  reconcile 
the  tenderest  memories  with  the  sternest  duties,  if  he,  with  all 
his  strength,  felt  that  the  associations  connected  with  those 
tokens  would  but  enervate  his  resolves,  and  embitter  his  resig- 
nation. You  can  guess  not  the  extent  of  the  sacrifice,  the 
bitterness  of  the  pang,  when,  averting  his  head,  he  dropped 


LUCRETiA.  3ot 

those  relics  on  the  hearth.  The  evidence  of  the  desultory  am- 
bition, the  tokens  of  the  visionary  love — the  same  flame  leapt 
up  to  devour  both !  It  was  as  the  funeral  pyre  of  his  youth ! 

"So!"  he  said  to  himself,  "let  all  that  can  divert  me  from 
the  true  ends  of  my  life — consume!  Labor,  take  back  your 
son." 

An  hour  afterwards,  and  his  clerk,  returning  home,  found 
Ardworth  employed  as  calmly  as  usual  on  his  Law  Reports. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE    INVITATION    TO    LAUGHTON. 

THAT  day,  when  he  called  at  Brompton,  Percival  reported  to 
Madame  Dalibard  his  interview  with  the  eccentric  Mr.  Tom- 
kins.  Lucretia  seemed  chafed  and  disconcerted  by  the  inqui- 
ries with  which  that  gentleman  had  honored  her,  and  as  soon  as 
Percival  had  gone,  she  sent  for  Varney.  He  did  not  come  till 
late ;  she  repeated  to  him  what  St.  John  had  said  of  the  stran- 
ger. Varney  participated  in  her  uneasy  alarm.  The  name, 
indeed,  was  unknown  to  them,  nor  could  they  conjecture  the 
bearer  of  so  ordinary  a  patronymic;  but  there  had  been 
secrets  enow  in  Lucretia' s  life  to  render  her  apprehensive  of 
encountering  those  who  had  known  her  in  earlier  years ;  and 
Varney  feared  lest  any  rumor  reported  to  St.  John  might  create 
his  mistrust,  or  lessen  the  hold  obtained  upon  a  victim  hereto- 
fore so  unsuspicious. '  They  both  agreed  in  the  expediency  of 
withdrawing  themselves  and  St.  John,  as  soon  as  possible,  from 
London,  and  frustrating  Percival's  chance  of  closer  intercourse 
with  the  stranger,  who  had  evidently  aroused  his  curiosity. 

The  next  day  Helen  was  much  indisposed,  and  the  symptoms 
grew  so  grave  towards  the  evening,  that  Madame  Dalibard  ex- 
pressed alarm,  and  willingly  suffered  Percival  (who  had  only 
been  permitted  to  see  Helen  for  a  few  minutes,  when  her  lassi- 
tude was  so  extreme  that  she  was  obliged  to  retire  to  her  room) 
to  go  in  search  of  a  physician :  he  returned  with  one  of  the 
most  eminent  of  the  faculty.  On  the  way  to  Brompton,  in 
reply  to  the  questions  of  Dr.  ,  Percival  spoke  of  the  dejec- 
tion to  which  Helen  was  occasionally  subject,  and  this  circum- 
stance confirmed  Dr.  ,  after  he  had  seen  his  patient,  in  his 

view  of  the  case.  In  addition  to  some  feverish  and  inflamma- 
tory symptoms  which  he  trusted  his  prescriptions  would  speed- 
ily remove,  he  found  great  nervous  debility,  and  willingly  fell 
in  with  the  casual  suggestion  of  Varney,  who  was  present,  that 


302  LUCRETlA. 

a.  change  of  air  would  greatly  improve  Miss  Mainwaring's  gen- 
eral health,  as  soon  as  the  temporary  acute  attack  had  sub- 
sided. He  did  not  regard  the  present  complaint  very  seriously, 
and  reassured  poor  Percival  by  his  cheerful  mien  and  sanguine 
predictions.  Percival  remained  at  the  house  the  whole  day, 
and  had  the  satisfaction,  before  he  left,  of  hearing  that  the 
remedies  had  already  abated  the  fever,  and  that  Helen  had 
fallen  into  a  profound  sleep.  Walking  back  to  town  with  Var- 
ney,  the  last  said,  hesitatingly:  "You  were  saying  to  me,  the 
other  day,  that  you  feared  you  should  have  to  go,  for  a  few 
days,  both  to  Vernon  Grange  and  to  Laughton,  as  your  steward 
wished  to  point  out  to  you  some  extensive  alterations  in  the 
management  of  your  woods,  to  commence  this  autumn.  As  you 
were  so  soon  coming  of  age,  Lady  Mary  desired  that  her  direc- 
tions should  yield  to  your  own.  Now,  since  Helen  is  recom- 
mended change  of  air,  why  not  invite  Madame  Dalibard  to 
visit  you  at  one  of  these  places?  I  would  suggest  Laughton. 
My  poor  mother-in-law,  I  know,  longs  to  revisit  the  scene  of 
her  youth,  and  you  could  not  compliment  or  conciliate  her 
more  than  by  such  an  invitation." 

"Oh,"  said  Percival  joyfully,  "it  would  realize  the  fond- 
est dream  of  my  heart  to  see  Helen  under  the  old  roof-tree  of 
Laughton ;  but  as  my  mother  is  abroad,  and  there  is  therefore 
no  lady  to  receive  them,  perhaps — " 

"Why,"  interrupted  Varney,  "Madame  Dalibard  herself  is 
almost  the  very  person  whom  les  frienstfances  might  induce  you 
to  select  to  do  the  honors  of  your  house  in  Lady  Mary's  ab- 
sence ;  not  only  as  kinswoman  to  yourself,  but  as  the  nearest 
surviving  relative  of  Sir  Miles — the  most  immediate  descend- 
ant of  the  St.  Johns;  her  mature  years  and  decorum  of  life, 
her  joint  kindred  to  Helen  and  yourself,  surely  remove  every 
appearance  of  impropriety." 

"If  she  thinks  so,  certainly;  I  am  no  accurate  judge  of  such 
formalities.  You  could  not  oblige  me  more,  Varney,  than  in 
pre-obtaining  her  consent  to  the  proposal.  Helen  at  Laugh- 
ton!  Oh,  blissful  thought!" 

"And  in  what  air  would  she  be  so  likely  to  revive?"  said 
Varney,  but  his  voice  was  thick  and  husky. 

The  ideas  thus  presented  to  him,  almost  banished  its  anxiety 
from  Percival's  breast.  In  a  thousand  delightful  shapes  they 
haunted  him  during  the  sleepless  night.  And  when,  the  next 
morning,  he  found  that  Helen  was  surprisingly  better,  he 
pressed  his  invitation  upon  Madame  Dalibard,  with  a  warmth 
that  made  her  cheek  yet  more  pale,  and  the  hand,  which  the 


LUCRETIA.  30;$ 

boy  grasped  as  he  pleaded,  as  cold  as  the  dead.  But  she 
briefly  consented,  and  Percival,  allowed  a  brief  interview  with 
Helen,  had  the  rapture  to  see  her  smile  in  a  delight  as  child- 
like as  his  own  at  the  news  he  communicated,  and  listen,  with 
swimming  eyes,  when  he  dwelt  on  the  walks  they  should  take 
together,  amidst  haunts  to  become  henceforth  dear  to  her  as  to 
himself.  Fairy  land  dawned  before  them. 

The  visit  of  the  physician  justified  Percival's  heightened  spir- 
its. All  the  acuter  symptoms  had  vanished  already.  He  sanc- 
tioned his  patient's  departure  from  town  as  soon  as  Madame 
Dalibard's  convenience  would  permit,  and  recommended  only 
a  course  of  restorative  medicines  to  strengthen  the  nervous  sys- 
tem, which  was  to  commence  with  the  following  morning,  and 
be  persisted  in  for  some  weeks.  He  dwelt  much  on  the  effect 
to  be  derived  from  taking  these  medicines,  the  first  thing  in 
the  day,  as  soon  as  Helen  woke.  Varney  and  Madame  Dali- 
bard  exchanged  a  rapid  glance.  Charmed  with  the  success 
that  in  this  instance  had  attended  the  skill  of  the  great  physi- 
cian, Percival,  in  his  usual  zealous  benevolence,  now  eagerly 
pressed  upon  Madame  Dalibard  the  wisdom  of  consulting 

Dr. for  her  own  malady;  and  the  doctor,  putting  on  his 

spectacles,  and  drawing  his  chair  nearer  to  the  frowning  crip- 
ple, began  to  question  her  of  her  state;  but  Madame  Dalibard 
abruptly  and  discourteously  put  a  stop  to  all  interrogatories: 
she  had  already  exhausted  all  remedies  art  could  suggest :  she 
had  become  reconciled  to  her  deplorable  infirmity,  and  lost  all 
faith  in  physicians;  some  day  or  other  she  might  try  the  baths 
at  Egra,  but,  till  then,  she  must  be  permitted  to  suffer  undis- 
turbed. 

The  doctor,  by  no  means  wishing  to  undertake  a  case  of 
chronic  paralysis,  rose  smilingly,  and  with  a  liberal  confession 
that  the  German  baths  were  sometimes  extremely  efficacious  in 
such  complaints,  pressed  Percival's  outstretched  hand,  then 
slipped  his  own  into  his  pocket,  and  bowed  his  way  out  of  the 
room. 

Relieved  from  all  apprehension,  Percival  very  good-humored- 
ly  received  the  hint  of  Madame  Dalibard,  that  the  excitement 
through  which  she  had  gone  for  the  last  twenty-four  hours  ren- 
dered her  unfit  for  his  society;  and  went  home  to  write  to 
Laughton,  and  prepare  all  things  for  the  reception  of  his  guests. 
Varney  accompanied  him.  Percival  found  Beck  in  the  hall, 
already  much  altered  and  embellished  by  a  new  suit  of  livery. 
The  ex-sweeper  stared  hard  at  Varney,  who,  without  recogni/c- 
ing,  in  so  smart  a  shape,  the  squalid  tatterdemalion  who  had 


lighted  him  up  the  stairs  to  Mr.  Grabman's  apartments,  passed 
him  by  into  Percival's  little  study,  on  the  ground-floor. 

"Well,  Beck,"  said  Percival,  ever  mindful  of  others,  and 
attributing  his  groom's  astonished  gaze  at  Varney  to  his  admi- 
ration of  that  gentleman's  showy  exterior;  "I  shall  send  you 
down  to  the  country  to-morrow  with  two  of  the  horses — so 
you  may  have  to-day  to  yourself,  to  take  leave  of  your  nurse. 
I  flatter  myself  you  will  find  her  rooms  a  little  more  comforta- 
ble than  they  were  yesterday." 

Beck  heard  with  a  bursting  heart;  and  his  master,  giving 
him  a  cheering  tap  on  the  shoulder,  left  him  to  find  his  way 
into  the  streets,  and  to  Becky's  abode. 

He  found,  indeed,  that  the  last  had  already  undergone  the 
magic  transformation  which  is  ever  at  the  command  of  godlike 
wealth.  Mrs.  Mivers,  who  was  naturally  prompt  and  active, 
had  had  pleasure  in  executing  Percival's  commission.  Early 
in  the  morning,  floors  had  been  scrubbed,  the  windows 
cleaned,  the  ventilator  fixed;  then  followed  porters  with  chairs 
and  tables,  and  a  wonderful  Dutch  clock,  and  new  bedding, 
and  a  bright  piece  of  carpet;  and  then  came  two  servants  be- 
longing to  Mrs.  Mivers  to  arrange  the  chattels;  and  finally 
when  all  was  nearly  completed,  the  Avatar  of  Mrs.  Mivers  her- 
self, to  give  the  last  finish  with  her  own  mittened  hands,  and 
in  her  own  housewifely  apron. 

The  good  lady  was  still  employed  in  ranging  a  set  of  tea- 
cups on  the  shelves  of  the  dresser,  when  Beck  entered ;  and 
his  old  nurse,  in  the  overflow  of  her  gratitude,  hobbled  up  to 
her  foundling,  and  threw  her  arms  round  his  neck. 

"That's  right!"  said  Mrs.  Mivers  good-humoredly,  turning 
round  and  wiping  the  tear  from  her  eye.  "You  ought  to 
make  much  of  him,  poor  lad;  he  has  turned  out  a  God-send, 
indeed;  and,  upon  my  word,  he  looks  very  respectable  in  his 
new  clothes.  But  what  is  this — a  child's  coral?"  as,  opening  a 
drawer  in  the  dresser,  she  discovered  Beck's  treasure.  "Dear 
me,  it  is  a  very  handsome  one — why,  these  bells  look  like 
gold!"  And  suspicion  of  her  prottgPs  honesty,  for  a  moment, 
contracted  her  thoughtful  brow ;  "How  ever  on  earth  did  you 
come  by  this,  Mrs.  Becky?" 

"Sure  and  sartin,"  answered  Becky,  dropping  her  mutilated 
curtsey,  "I  be's  glad  it  be  found  now,  instead  of  sum  days 
afore,  or  I  might  have  been  vicked  enough  to  let  it  go  vith  the 
rest  to  the  pop-shop;  and  I'm  sure  the  time's  out  of  mind,  ven 
that  'ere  boy  was  a  hurchin,  that  I've  risted  the  timtashung,  and 
gaid,  'No,  Becky  Carruthers,  that  maun't  go  to  my  huncle's'J" 


LUCRETIA.  305 

"And  why  not,  my  good  woman?" 

"Lor'  love  you,  marm,  if  that  curril  could  speak,  who 
knows  vot  it  might  say — eh,  lad,  who  knows?  You  sees,  marm, 
my  good  man  had  not  a  long  been  dead — I  could  not  a  get  no 
vork,  no  vays — 'Becky  Carruthers, '  says  I,  'you  must  go  out  in 
the  streets  a-begging!'  I  niver  thought  I  should  a  come  to 
that.  But  my  poor  husband,  you  sees,  marm,  fell  Jrom  a  scaf- 
fol — as  good  a  man  as  hever — " 

"Yes.  yes,  you  told  me  all  that  before,"  said  Mrs.  Mivers, 
growing  impatient,  and  already  diverted  from  her  interest  in 
the  coral  by  a  new  cargo,  all  bright  from  the  tinman,  which, 
indeed,  no  less  instantaneously  absorbed  the  admiration  both 
of  Beck  and  his  nurse.  And  what  with  the  inspection  of 
these  articles,  and  the  comments  each  provoked,  the  coral 
rested  in  peace  on  the  dresser,  till  Mrs.  Mivers,  when  just 
about  to  renew  her  inquiries,  was  startled  by  the  sound  of  the 
Dutch  clock  striking  four,  a  voice  which  reminded  her  of  the 
lapse  of  time,  and  her  own  dinner  hour.  So,  with  many  prom- 
ises to  call  again,  and  have  a  good  chat  with  her  humble 
friend,  she  took  her  departure,  amidst  the  blessings  of  Becky, 
and  the  less  noisy,  but  not  less  grateful,  salutations  of  Beck. 

Very  happy  was  the  evening  these  poor  creatures  passed 
together  over  their  first  cup  of  tea  from  the  new  bright  copper 
kettle,  and  the  almost-forgotten  luxury  of  crumpets,  in  which 
their  altered  circumstances  permitted  them,  without  extrava- 
gance, to  indulge.  In  the  course  of  conversation,  Beck  com- 
municated how  much  he  had  been  astonished  by  recognizing 
the  visitor  of  Grabman,  the  provoker  of  the  irritable  grave- 
stealer,  in  the  familiar  companion  of  his  master;  and  when 
Becky  told  him  how  often  in  the  domestic  experience  her  avo- 
cation of  charing  had  accumulated,  she  had  heard  of  the  ruin 
brought  on  rich  young  men  by  gamblers  and  sharpers,  Beck 
promised  to  himself  to  keep  a  sharp  eye  on  Grabman 's  showy 
acquaintance.  "For  master  is  but  a  babe  like,"  said  he 
majestically;  "and  I'd  be  cut  into  mincemeat  afore  I'd  let  an 
'air  on  his  'ead  come  to  'arm,  if  so  be's  has  'ow  I  could  per- 
went  it." 

We  need  not  say  that  his  nurse  confirmed  him  in  these  good 
resolutions. 

"And  now,"  said  Beck,  when  the  time  came  for  parting, 
"you'll  keep  from  the  gin-shop,  old  'oman,  and  not  shame  the 
young  master?" 

"Sartin  sure,"  answered  Becky;  "it  is  only  ven  vun  is  down 
in  the  vorld  that  vun  goes  to  the  licker-shop.  Now,  hin- 


306  LUCRETIA. 

deed," — and  she  looked  round  very  proudly — "I  'as  a  'spec- 
table  stashion,  and  I  vouldn't  go  for  to  lower  it,  and  let  'em 
say  that  Becky  Carruthers  does  not  know  how  to  conduct  her- 
self. The  curril  will  be  safe  enuff  now — but  praps  you  had 
best  take  it  yourself,  lad." 

"Vot  should  I  do  vith  it?  I've  had  enuff  of  the  'sponsibility. 
Put  it  up  in  a  'ankerchiff,  and  praps  ven  master  gets  married, 
and  'as  a  babby  vot's  teethin,'  he  vill  say,  'Thank  ye,  Beck,  for 
your  curril.'  Vould  not  that  make  us  proud,  mammy?  " 

Chuckling  heartily  at  that  vision,  Beck  kissed  his  nurse,  and 
trying  hard  to  keep  himself  upright,  and  do  credit  to  the  dig- 
nity of  his  cloth,  returned  to  his  new  room  over  the  stables. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE    WAKING    OF    THE    SERPENT. 

AND  how,  O  Poet  of  the  sad  belief,  and  eloquence,  "like 
ebony  once  dark  and  splendid,"  *  how  couldst  thou,  august 
Lucretius,  deem  it  but  sweet  to  behold  from  the  steep  the  strife 
of  the  great  sea,  or,  safe  from  the  peril,  gaze  on  the  wrath  of 
the  battle,  or,  serene  in  the  temples  of  the  wise,  look  afar  on 
the  wanderings  of  human  error?  Is  it  so  sweet  to  survey  the 
ills  from  which  thou  art  delivered?  Shall  not  the  strong  law  of 
SYMPATHY  find  thee  out,  and  thy  heart  rebuke  thy  philoso- 
phy? Not  sweet,  indeed,  can  be  man's  shelter  in  self,  when 
he  says  to  the  storm:  "I  have  no  bark  on  the  sea";  or  to  the 
gods  of  the  battle:  "I  have  no  son  in  the  slaughter";  when  he 
smiles  unmoved  upon  Woe,  and  murmurs:  "Weep  on,  for 
these  eyes  know  no  tears";  when  unappalled,  he  beholdeth  the 
black  deeds  of  crime,  and  cries  to  his  conscience:  "Thou  art 
calm."  Yet  solemn  is  the  sight  to  him,  who  lives  in  all  life; 
seeks  for  Nature  in  the  storm,  and  Providence  in  the  battle; 
loses  self  in  the  woe;  probes  his  heart  in  the  crime;  and  owns  no 
philosophy  that  sets  him  free  from  the  fetters  of  man.  Not  in 
vain  do  we  scan  all  the  contrasts  in  the  large  framework  of  civ- 
ilized earth,  if  we  note,  "when  the  dust  groweth  into  hardness, 
and  the  clods  cleave  fast  together."  Range,  O  Art,  through  all 
space,  clasp  together  all  extremes,  shake  idle  wealth  from  its 
lethargy,  and  bid  States  look  in  hovels,  where  the  teacher  is 
dumb,  and  Reason  unweeded  runs  to  rot!  Bid  haughty  Intel- 
lect pause  in  its  triumph  and  doubt  if  intellect  alone  can  de- 
liver the  soul  from  its  tempters !  Only  that  lives  uncorrupt, 

*  It  was  said  of  Tertullian,  that  "  his  style  was  like  ebony,  dark  and  splendid." 


LUCRETIA.  307 

which  preserves  in  all  seasons  the  human  affections  in  which 
the  breath  of  God  breathes,  and  is !  Go  forth  to  the  world,  O 
Art!  Go  forth  to  the  innocent,  the  guilty;  the  wise,  and  the 
dull!  Go  forth  as  the  still  voice  of  Fate!  Speak  of  the  inse- 
curity even  of  Goodness  below !  Carry  on  the  rapt  vision  of 
suffering  Virtue  through  "the  doors  of  the  shadows  of  death"; 
Show  the  dim  revelations  symbolled  forth  in  the  Tragedy  of 
old !  How  incomplete  is  man's  destiny,  how  undeveloped  is 
the  justice  divine,  if  Antigone  sleep  eternally  in  the  ribs  of  the 
rock,  and  (Edipus  vanish  forever  in  the  Grove  of  the  Furies ! 
Here,  below,  "the  waters  are  hid  with  a  stone,  and  the  face  of 
the  deep  is  frozen"  !  But  above  liveth  He  "who  can  bind  the 
sweet  influences  of  the  Pleiades,  and  loose  the  bands  of 
Orion."  Go  with  Fate  over  the  bridge,  and  she  vanishes  in 
the  land  beyond  the  gulf !  Behold  where  the  Eternal  demands 
Eternity  for  the  progress  of  His  creatures,  and  the  vindication 
of  His  justice! 

It  was  past  midnight,  and  Lucretia  sat  alone  in  her  dreary 
room;  her  head  buried  on  her  bosom,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the 
ground,  her  hands  resting  on  her  knees:  it  was  an  image  of 
inanimate  prostration  and  decrepitude  that  might  have  moved 
compasssion  to  its  depth.  The  door  opened,  and  Martha  en- 
tered, to  assist  Madame  Dalibard,  as  usual,  to  retire  to  rest. 
Her  mistress  slowly  raised  her  eyes  at  the  noise  of  the  opening 
door,  and  those  eyes  took  their  searching,  penetrating  acute- 
ness,  as  they  fixed  upon  the  florid,  nor  uncomely  countenance 
of  the  waiting-woman. 

In  her  starched  cap,  her  sober-colored  stuff  gown,  in  her 
prim,  quiet  manner,  and  a  certain  sanctified  demureness  of  as- 
pect, there  was  something  in  the  first  appearance  of  this  woman 
that  impressed  you  with  the  notion  of  respectability,  and  in- 
spired confidence  in  those  steady,  good  qualities  which  we  seek 
in  a  trusty  servant.  But,  more  closely  examined,  an  habitual 
observer  might  have  found  much  to  qualify,  perhaps  to  disturb, 
his  first  prepossessions.  The  exceeding  lowness  of  the  fore- 
head, over  which  that  stiff,  harsh  hair  was  so  puritanically 
parted ;  the  severe  hardness  of  those  thin,  small  lips,  so  pursed 
up  and  constrained ;  even  a  certain  dull  cruelty  in  those  light, 
cold  blue  eyes,  might  have  caused  an  uneasy  sentiment,  almost 
approaching  to  fear.  The  fat  grocer's  spoiled  child  instinctive- 
ly recoiled  from  her,  when  she  entered  the  shop  to  make  her 
household  purchases;  the  old,  gray-whiskered  terrier  dog,  at 
the  public  house,  slunk  into  the  tap  when  she  crossed  the 
threshold, 


308  LUCRETIA. 

Madame  Dalibard  silently  suffered  herself  to  be  wheeled  into 
the  adjoining  bedroom,  and  the  process  of  disrobing  was  nearly 
completed  before  she  said,  abruptly : 

"So  you  attended  Mr.  Varney's  uncle  in  his  last  illness. 
Did  he  suffer  much?" 

"He  was  a  poor  creature,  at  best,"  answered  Martha;  "but 
he  gave  me  a  deal  of  trouble  afore  he  went.  He  was  a  scranny 
corpse  when  I  strecked  him  out." 

Madame  Dalibard  shrank  from  the  hands  at  that  moment 
employed  upon  herself,  and  said: 

"It  was  not,  then,  the  first  corpse  you  have  laid  out  for  the 
grave?" 

"Not  by  many." 

"And  did  any  of  those  you  so  prepared,  die  of  the  same 
complaint?" 

"I  can't  say,  I'm  sure, "  returned  Martha.  "I  never  inquires 
how  folks  die ;  my  bizness  was  to  nurse  'em  till  all  was  over, 
and  then  to  sit  up.  As  they  say  in  my  country — 'Riving  Pike 
wears  a  hood,  when  the  weather  bodes  ill.'  "  * 

"And  when  you  sat  up  with  Mr.  Varney's  uncle,  did  you  feel 
no  fear  in  the  dead  of  the  night?  That  corpse  before  you — no 
fear?" 

"Young  Mr.  Varney  said  I  should  come  to  no  harm.  Oh, 
he's  a  clever  man.  What  should  I  fear,  ma'am?"  answered  Mar- 
tha, with  a  horrid  simplicity. 

•'You  have  belonged  to  a  very  religious  sect,  I  think  I  have 
heard  you  say — a  sect  not  unfamiliar  to  me — a  sect  to  which 
great  crime  is  very  rarely  known?" 

"Yes,  ma'am,  some  of  'em  be  tame  enough,  but  others  be 
weel  f  deep!  " 

"You  do  not  believe  what  they  taught  you?" 

"I  did,  when  I  was  young  and  silly." 

"And  what  disturbed  your  belief?" 

"Ma'am,  the  man  what  taught  me,  and  my  mother  afore  me, 
was  the  first  I  ever  kep  company  with,"  answered  Martha, 
without  a  change  in  her  florid  hue,  which  seemed  fixed  in  her 
cheek,  as  the  red  in  an  autumn  leaf.  "After  he  had  ruined  me, 
as  the  girls  say,  he  told  me  as  how  it  was  all  sham!" 

"You  loved  him,  then?" 

"The  man  was  well  enough,  ma'am,  and  he  behaved  hand- 
some, and  got  me  a  husband.  I've  known  better  days." 

*  "  If  Riving  Pike  do  wear  a  hood, 

The  day,  be  sure,  will  ne'er  be  good." 

A  LANCASHIRE  DISTICH. 
t  Wctl,  a  whirlpool. 


LUCRETIA.  309 

"You  sleep  well  at  night  ?" 

"Yes,  ma'am,  thank  you,  I  loves  my  bed." 

"I  have  done  with  you,"  said  Madame  Dalibard,  stifling  a 
groan,  as  now,  placed  in  her  bed,  she  turned  to  the  wall.  Mar- 
tha extinguished  the  candle,  leaving  it  on  the  table  by  the  bed, 
with  a  book  and  a  box  of  matches,  for  Madame  Dalibard  was  a 
bad  sleeper,  and  often  read  in  the  night.  She  then  drew  the 
curtains,  and  went  her  way. 

It  might  be  an  hour  after  Martha  had  retired  to  rest,  that 
a  hand  was  stretched  from  the  bed,  that  the  candle  was  lighted, 
and  Lucretia  Dalibard  rose ;  with  a  sudden  movement  she 
threw  aside  the  coverings,  and  stood  in  her  long  night-gear  on 
the  floor.  Yes,  the  helpless,  paralyzed  cripple  rose — was  on 
her  feet — tall,  elastic,  erect!  It  was  as  a  resuscitation  from  the 
grave.  Never  was  change  more  startling  than  that  simple  ac- 
tion effected — not  in  the  form  alone,  but  the  whole  character 
of  the  face.  The  solitary  light  streamed  upward  on  a  counte- 
nance, on  every  line  of  which  spoke  sinister  power  and  strong 
resolve.  If  you  had  ever  seen  her  before,  in  her  false,  crippled 
state,  prostrate  and  helpless,  and  could  have  seen  her  then — 
those  eyes,  if  haggard  still,  now  full  of  life  and  vigor;  that 
frame,  if  spare,  towering  aloft  in  commanding  stature,  perfect 
in  its  proportions  as  a  Grecian  image  of  Nemesis — your  amaze 
would  have  merged  into  terror,  so  preternatural  did  the  trans- 
formation appear!  So  did  aspect  and  bearing  contradict  the 
very  character  of  her  sex ;  uniting  the  two  elements,  most  for- 
midable in  man  or  in  fiend — wickedness  and  power! 

She  stood  a  moment  motionless,  breathing  loud,  as  if  it  were 
a  joy  to  breathe  free  from  restraint,  and  then,  lifting  the  light, 
and  gliding  to  the  adjoining  room,  she  unlocked  a  bureau  in 
the  corner,  and  bent  over  a  small  casket,  which  she  opened  with 
A  secret  spring. 

Reader,  cast  back  your  eye  to  that  passage  in  this  history, 
when  Lucretia  Clavering  took  down  the  volume  from  the  niche 
in  the  tapestried  chamber  at  Laughton,  and  numbered,  in 
thought,  the  hours  left  to  her  uncle's  life.  Look  back  on  the 
ungrateful  thought ;  behold,  how  it  was  swelled  and  ripened 
into  the  guilty  deed!  There,  in  that  box,  Death  guards  his 
treasure-crypt.  There,  all  the  science  of  Hades  numbers  its 
murderous  inventions.  As  she  searched  for  the  ingredients  her 
design  had  pre-selected,  something  heavier  than  those  small 
packets  she  deranged  fell  to  the  bottom  of  the  box  with  a  low 
and  hollow  sound.  She  started  at  the  noise,  and  then  smiled, 
in  scorn  of  her  momentary  fear,  as  she  took  up  the  ring  that 


310 

had  occasioned  the  sound — a  ring  plain  and  solid,  like  those 
used  as  signets  in  the  Middle  Ages,  with  a  large  dull  opal  in  the 
centre.  What  secret  could  that  bauble  have  in  common  with 
its  ghastly  companions  in  Death's  crypt?  This  had  been  found 
amongst  Olivier's  papers;  a  note  in  that  precious  manuscript, 
which  had  given  to  the  hands  of  his  successors  the  keys  of  the 
grave,  had  discovered  the  mystery  of  its  uses.  By  the  pressure 
of  the  hand,  at  the  touch  of  a  concealed  spring,  a  barbed  point 
flew  forth,  steeped  in  venom,  more  deadly  than  the  Indian  ex- 
tracts from  the  bag  of  the  cobra-capella — a  venom  to  which  no 
antidote  is  known,  which  no  test  can  detect.  It  corrupts  the 
whole  mass  of  the  blood;  it  mounts  in  frenzy  and  fire  to  the 
brain  ;  it  rends  the  soul  from  the  body  in  spasm  and  convulsion. 
But  examine  the  dead,  and  how  divine  the  effect  of  the  cause? 
How  go  back  to  the  records  of  the  Borgias,  and  amidst  all  the 
scepticism  of  times  in  which,  happily,  such  arts  are  unknown, 
unsuspected,  learn  from  the  hero  of  Machiavel  how  a  clasp  of 
the  hand  can  get  rid  of  a  foe?  Easier  and  more  natural  to 
point  to  the  living  puncture  in  the  skin,  and  the  swollen  flesh 
round  it,  and  dilate  on  the  danger  a  rusty  nail — nay  a  pin  can 
engender — when  the  humors  are  peccant  and  the  blood  is  im- 
pure! The  fabrication  of  that  bauble,  the  discovery  of  Borgia's 
device,  was  the  masterpiece  in  the  science  of  Dalibard;  a  curi- 
ous and  philosophical  triumph  of  research,  hitherto  unused  by 
its  inventor  and  his  heirs;  for  that  casket  is  rich  in  the  choice 
of  more  gentle  materials ;  but  the  use  yet  may  come.  As  she 
gazed  on  the  ring,  there  was  a  complacent  and  proud  expression 
on  Lucretia's  face. 

"Dumb  token  of  Caesar  Borgia!"  she  murmured;  "Him  of 
the  wisest  head  and  the  boldest  hand  that  ever  grasped  at  em- 
pire ;  whom  Machiavel  the  virtuous,  rightly  praised  as  the  model 
of  accomplished  ambition !  Why  should  I  falter  in  the  paths 
which  he  trod  with  his  royal  step,  only  because  my  goal  is  not 
a  throne?  Every  circle  is  as  complete  in  itself,  whether  round- 
ing a  globule  or  a  star.  Why  groan  in  the  belief  that  the  mind 
denies  itself  by  the  darkness  through  which  it  glides  on  its  object, 
or  the  mire  through  which  it  ascends  to  the  hill?  Murderer  as 
he  was,  poisoner,  and  fratricide — did  blood  clog  his  intellect? 
Or  crime  impoverish  the  luxury  of  his  genius?  Was  his  verse 
less  melodious,*  or  his  love  of  art  less  intense,  or  his  eloquence 
less  persuasive,  because  he  sought  to  remove  every  barrier,  re- 
venge every  wrong,  crush  every  foe?" 

*  It  is  well  known  that  Caesar  Borgia  was  both  a  munificent  patron  and  an  exquisite 
appreciator  of  art  ;  well  known  also  are  his  powers  of  persuasion  :  but  the  general  reader 
may  not  perhaps  be  acquainted  with  the  fact,  that  this  terrible  criminal  was  also  a  poet. 


LtJCRETtA.  311 

In  the  wondrous  corruption  to  which  her  mind  had  de- 
scended, thus  murmured  Lucretia.  Intellect  had  been  so  long 
made  her  sole  god,  that  the  very  monster  of  history  was  lifted 
to  her  reverence  by  his  ruthless  intellect  alone ;  lifted  in  that 
mood  of  feverish  excitement,  when  conscience,  often  less 
silenced,  lay  crushed  under  the  load  of  the  deed  to  come,  into 
an  example  and  a  guide. 

Though,  at  times,  when  looking  back,  oppressed  by  the 
blackest  despair,  no  remorse  of  the  past  ever  weakened  those 
nerves,  when  the  Hour  called  up  its  demon,  and  the  Will  ruled 
the  rest  of  the  human  being  as  a  machine. 

She  replaced  the  ring,  she  reclosed  the  casket,  and  relocked 
its  depository ;  then  passed  again  into  the  adjoining  chamber. 

A  few  minutes  afterwards,  and  the  dim  light  that  stole  from 
the  heavens  (in  which  the  moon  was  partially  overcast),  through 
the  casement  on  the  staircase,  rested  on  a  shapeless  figure, 
robed  in  black  from  head  to  foot — a  figure  so  obscure  and  in- 
definable in  outline,  so  suited  to  the  gloom  in  its  hue,  so 
stealthy  and  rapid  in  its  movements,  that,  had  you  started 
from  sleep,  and  seen  it  on  your  floor,  you  would,  perforce, 
have  deemed  that  your  fancy  had  befooled  you! 

Thus  darkly,  through  the  darkness,  went  the  Poisoner  to  her 
prey. 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 

RETROSPECT. 

WE  have  now  arrived  at  that  stage  in  this  history  when  it  is 
necessary  to  look  back  on  the  interval  in  Lucretia' s  life,  be- 
tween the  death  of  Dalibard,  and  her  re-introduction,  in  the 
second  portion  of  our  tale. 

One  day,  without  previous  notice  or  warning,  Lucretia  ar- 
rived at  William  Mainwaring's  house ;  she  was  in  the  deep  weeds 
of  widowhood,  and  that  garb  of  mourning  sufficed  to  add  Su- 
san's tenderest  commiseration  to  the  warmth  of  her  affection- 
ate welcome.  Lucretia  appeared  to  have  forgiven  the  past, 
and  to  have  conquered  its  more  painful  recollections ;  she  was 
gentle  to  Susan,  though  she  rather  suffered  than  returned  her 
caresses;  she  was  open  and  frank  to  William.  Both  felt  inex- 
pressibly grateful  for  her  visit — the  forgiveness  it  betokened,  and 
the  confidence  it  implied.  At  this  time,  no  condition  could  be 
more  promising  and  prosperous  than  that  of  the  young  banker. 
From  the  first,  the  most  active  partner  in  the  bank,  he  had  now 
virtually  almost  monopolized  the  business.  The  senior  partner 


314  LUCkETIA. 

was  old  and  infirm ;  the  second  had  a  bucolic  turn,  and  was 
much  taken  up  by  the  care  of  a  large  farm  he  had  recently  pur- 
chased, so  that  Mainwaring  more  and  more  trusted  and  hon- 
ored, became  the  sole  managing  administrator  of  the  firm. 
Business  throve  in  his  able  hands;  and  with  patient  and  steady 
perseverance  there  was  little  doubt  but  what,  before  middle  age 
was  attained,  his  competence  would  have  swelled  into  a  fortune 
sufficient  to  justify  him  in  realizing  the  secret  dream  of  his 
heart — the  parliamentary  representation  of  the  town  in  which 
he  had  already  secured  the  affection  and  esteem  of  the  inhabi- 
tants. 

It  was  not  long  before  Lucretia  detected  the  ambition  Will- 
iam's industry  but  partially  concealed;  it  was  not  long  before, 
with  the  ascendancy  natural  to  her  will  and  her  talents,  she  be- 
gan to  exercise  considerable,  though  unconscious,  influence 
over  a  man  in  whom  a  thousand  good  qualities,  and  some  great 
talents,  were  unhappily  accompanied  by  infirm  purpose  and 
weak  resolutions.  The  ordinary  conversation  of  Lucretia  un- 
settled his  mind  and  inflamed  his  vanity — a  conversation  able, 
aspiring,  full  both  of  knowledge  drawn  from  books,  and  of  that 
experience  of  public  men,  which  her  residence  in  Paris  (where- 
on, with  its  new  and  greater  Charlemagne,  the  eyes  of  the  world 
were  turned)  had  added  to  her  acquisitions  in  the  lore  of  human 
life.  Nothing  more  disturbs  a  mind  like  William  Mainwaring's 
than  that  species  of  eloquence  which  rebukes  its  patience  in  the 
present,  by  inflaming  all  its  hopes  in  the  future.  Lucretia  had 
none  of  the  charming  babble  of  women;  none  of  that  tender 
interest  in  household  details,  in  the  minutiae  of  domestic  life, 
which  relaxes  the  intellect  while  softening  the  heart.  Hard 
and  vigorous,  her  sentences  came  forth  in  eternal  appeal  to  the 
reason,  or  address  to  the  sterner  passions  in  which  love  has  no 
share.  Beside  this  strong  thinker,  poor  Susan's  sweet  talk 
seemed  frivolous  and  inane.  Her  soft  hold  upon  Mainwar- 
ing loosened;  he  ceased  to  consult  her  upon  business;  he  began 
to  repine  that  the  partner  of  his  lot  could  have  little  sympathy 
with  his  dreams — more  often  and  more  bitterly  now  did  his  dis- 
contented glance,  in  his  way  homeward,  rove  to  the  roof-tops 
of  the  rural  member  for  the  town;  more  eagerly  did  he  read 
the  parliamentary  debates;  more  heavily  did  he  sigh  at  the 
thought  of  eloquence  denied  a  vent,  and  ambition  delayed  in 
its  career. 

When  arrived  at  this  state  of  mind,  Lucretia' s  conversation 
took  a  more  worldly,  a  more  practical  turn.  Her  knowledge 
of  the  speculators  of  Paris  instructed  her  pictures  of  bold  inge- 


LUCRETIA.  313 

nuity  creating  sudden  wealth;  she  spoke  of  fortunes  made  in  a 
day,  of  parvenus  bursting  into  millionnaires,  of  wealth  as  the 
necessary  instrument  of  ambition,  as  the  arch  ruler  of  the  civ- 
ilized world.  Never  once,  be  it  observed,  in  these  temptations, 
did  Lucretia  address  herself  to  the  heart;  the  ordinary  chan- 
nels of  vulgar  seduction  were  disdained  by  her;  she  would  not 
have  stooped  so  low  as  Mainwaring's  love,  could  she  have  com- 
manded or  allured  it;  she  was  willing  to  leave  to  Susan  the 
husband  reft  from  her  own  passionate  youth,  but  leave  him 
with  the  brand  on  his  brow  and  the  worm  at  his  heart — a  scoff 
and  a  wreck. 

At  this  time,  there  was  in  that  market  town  one  of  those  ad- 
venturous, speculative  men,  who  are  the  more  dagerous  impos- 
tors because  imposed  upon  by  their  own  sanguine  chimeras,  who 
have  a  plausibility  in  their  calculations,  an  earnestness  in  their 
arguments,  which  account  for  the  dupes  they  daily  make  in  our 
most  sober  and  wary  of  civilized  communities.  Unscrupulous 
in  their  means,  yet  really  honest  in  the  belief  that  their  objects 
can  be  attained,  they  are  at  once  the  rogues  and  fanatics  of 
Mammon !  This  person  was  held  to  have  been  fortunate  in 
some  adroit  speculations  in  the  corn  trade,  and  he  was  brought 
too  frequently  into  business  with  Mainwaring  not  to  be  a  fre- 
quent visitor  at  the  house.  In  him,  Lucretia  saw  the  very  in- 
strument of  her  design;  she  led  him  on  to  talk  of  business  as  a 
game;  of  money  as  a  realizer  of  cent,  per  cent.;  she  drew  him 
into  details;  she  praised  him,  she  admired.  In  his  presence 
she  seemed  only  to  hear  him;  in  his  absence,  musingly,  she 
started  from  silence  to  exclaim  on  the  acuteness  of  his  genius 
and  the  accuracy  of  his  figures.  Soon  the  tempter  at  Main- 
waring's heart  gave  signification  to  these  praises;  soon  this 
adventurer  became  his  most  intimate  friend.  Scarcely  know- 
ing why,  never  ascribing  the  change  to  her  sister,  poor  Susan 
wept,  amazed  at  Mainwaring's  transformation.  No  care  now 
for  the  new  books  from  London,  or  the  roses  in  the  garden ! 
The  music  on  the  instrument  was  unheeded !  Books,  roses, 
music! — what  are  those  trifles  to  a  man  thinking  upon  cent, 
per  cent.?  Mainwaring's  very  countenance  altered;  it  lost  its 
frank,  affectionate  beauty;  sullen,  abstracted,  morose,  it 
showed  that  some  great  care  was  at  the  core.  Then  Lucretia 
herself  began  grievingly  to  notice  the  change  to  Susan;  grad- 
ually she  altered  her  tone  with  regard  to  the  speculator,  and 
hinted  vague  fears,  and  urged  Susan  to  remonstrance  and 
warning.  As  she  anticipated,  warning  and  remonstrance  came 
in  vain  to  the  man  who,  comparing  Lucretia's  mental  power  to 


314  LUCRETIA. 

Susan's,  had  learned  to  despise  the  unlearned,  timid  sense 
of  the  last. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  trace  this  change  in  Mainwaring,  step 
by  step,  or  to  measure  the  time  which  sufficed  to  dazzle  his 
reason  and  blind  his  honor.  In  the  midst  of  schemes  and 
hopes,  which  the  lust  of  gold  now  pervaded,  came  a  thunder- 
bolt. An  anonymous  letter  to  the  head  partner  of  the  bank 
provoked  suspicions  that  led  to  minute  examination  of  the 
accounts.  It  seemed  that  sums  had  been  irregularly  advanced 
(upon  bills  drawn  upon  men  of  straw)  to  the  speculator  by 
Mainwaring;  and  the  destination  of  these  sums  could  be  traced 
to  gambling  operations  in  trade,  in  which  Mainwaring  had  a  pri- 
vate interest  and  partnership.  So  great,  as  we  have  said,  had 
been  the  confidence  placed  in  William's  abilities  and  honor, 
that  the  facilities  afforded  him,  in  the  disposal  of  the  joint 
stock,  far  exceeded  those  usually  granted  to  the  partner  of  a 
firm,  and  the  breach  of  trust  appeared  the  more  flagrant  from 
the  extent  of  the  confidence  misplaced.  Meanwhile  William 
Mainwaring,  though  as  yet  unconscious  of  the  proceedings  of  his 
partners,  was  gnawed  by  anxiety  and  remorse,  not  unmixed 
with  hope.  He  depended  upon  the  result  of  a  bold  specula- 
tion in  the  purchase  of  shares  in  a  Canal  Company,  a  bill  for 
which  was  then  before  Parliament,  with  (as  he  was  led  to  be- 
lieve) a  certainty  of  success.  The  sums  he  had,  on  his  own 
responsibility,  abstracted  from  the  joint  account  were  devoted 
to  this  adventure.  But  to  do  him  justice,  he  never  dreamed  of 
appropriating  the  profits  anticipated  to  himself.  Though 
knowing  that  the  bills,  on  which  the  moneys  had  been  ad- 
vanced, were  merely  nominal  deposits,  he  had  confidently  cal- 
culated on  the  certainty  of  success  for  the  speculations  to  which 
the  proceeds  so  obtained  were  devoted,  and  he  looked  forward 
to  the  moment  when  he  might  avow  what  he  had  done,  and 
justify  it  by  doubling  the  capital  withdrawn.  But  to  his  incon- 
ceivable horror  the  bill  of  the  Canal  Comany  was  rejected  in 
the  Lords ;  the  shares  bought  at  a  premium  went  down  to 
zero;  and,  to  add  to  his  perplexity,  the  speculator  abruptly 
disappeared  from  the  town.  In  this  crisis,  he  was  summoned 
to  meet  his  indignant  associates. 

The  evidence  against  him  was  morally  damning,  if  not 
legally  conclusive.  The  unhappy  man  heard  all  in  the  silence 
of  despair.  Crushed  and  bewildered,  he  attempted  no  de- 
fence. He  asked  but  an  hour  to  sum  up  the  losses  of  the 
bank,  and  his  own;  they  amounted  within  a  few  hundreds  to  the 
ten  thousand  pounds  he  had  brought  to  the  firm,  and  which,  in 


LUCRETIA.  315 

the  absence  of  marriage-settlements,  was  entirely  at  his  own  dis- 
posal. This  sum  he  at  once  resigned  to  his  associates  on  con- 
dition that  they  should  defray  from  it  his  personal  liabilities. 
The  money  thus  repaid,  his  partners  naturally  relinquished  all 
further  inquiry.  They  were  moved  by  pity  for  one  so  gifted 
and  so  fallen;  they  even  offered  him 'a  subordinate,  but  lucra- 
tive, situation  in  the  firm  in  which  he  had  been  partner:  but 
Mainwaring  wanted  the  patience  and  resolution  to  work  back 
the  redemption  of  his  name — perhaps,  ultimately,  of  his  for- 
tunes. In  the  fatal  anguish  of  his  shame  and  despair,  he  fled 
from  the  town  ;  his  flight  confirmed  forever  the  rumors  against 
him — rumors  worse  than  the  reality.  It  was  long  before  he 
even  admitted  Susan  to  the  knowledge  of  the  obscure  refuge 
he  had  sought;  there,  at  length,  she  joined  him.  Meanwhile, 
what  did  Lucretia?  She  sold  nearly  half  of  her  own  fortune, 
constituted  principally  of  the  moiety  of  her  portion,  which,  at 
D^libard's  death,  had  passed  to  herself  as  survivor,  and  partly 
of  the  share  in  her  deceased  husband's  effects,  which  the 
French  law  awarded  to  her;  and  with  the  proceeds  of  this  sum 
she  purchased  an  annuity  for  her  victims?  Was  this  strange 
generosity  the  act  of  mercy,  the  result  of  repentance?  No;  it 
was  one  of  the  not  least  subtle  and  delicious  refinements  of  her 
revenge.  To  know  him  who  had  rejected  her — the  rival  who 
had  supplanted — the  miserable  pensioners  of  her  bounty,  was 
dear  to  her  haughty  and  disdainful  hate.  The  lust  of  power, 
ever  stronger  in  her  than  avarice,  more  than  reconciled  her  to 
the  sacrifice  of  gold;  yes,  here  she,  the  despised,  the  de- 
graded, had  power  still;  her  wrath  had  ruined  the  fortunes  of 
her  victim,  blasted  the  repute,  embittered  and  desolated 
evermore  the  future;  now  her  contemptuous  charity  fed  the 
wretched  lives  that  she  spared  in  scorn.  She  had  no  small 
difficulty,  it  is  true,  in  persuading  Susan  to  accept  this  sacri- 
fice, and  she  did  so  only  by  sustaining  her  sister's  belief  that 
the  past  yet  could  be  retrieved;  that  Mainwaring's  energies 
could  yet  rebuild  their  fortunes;  and  that  as  the  annuity  was 
at  any  time  redeemable,  the  aid  therefore  was  only  temporary. 
With  this  understanding,  Susan,  overwhelmed  with  gratitude, 
weeping,  and  broken-hearted,  departed  to  join  the  choice  of 
her  youth.  As  the  men  deputed  by  the  auctioneer  to  arrange 
and  ticket  the  furniture  for  sale  entered  the  desolate  house, 
Lucretia  then,  with  the  step  of  a  conqueror,  passed  from  the 
threshold. 

"Ah!"    she  murmured  as  she   paused,  and  gazed   on  the 
walls;  "Ah,  they  were  happy  when  I  first  entered  those  doors! 


316  LUCRETIA. 

Happy  in  each  other's  tranquil  love;  happier  still,  when  they 
deemed  I  had  forgiven  the  wrong,  and  abjured  the  past!  How 
honored  was  then  their  home!  How  knew  I  then,  for  the  first 
time,  what  the  home  of  love  can  be?  And  who  had  destroyed 
for  me,  upon  all  the  earth,  a  home  like  theirs?  They  on  whom 
that  home  smiled  with  its  serene  and  taunting  peace !  I — I,  the 
guest!  I — I,  the  abandoned,  the  betrayed!  What  dark  mem- 
ories were  on  my  soul!  What  a  hell  boiled  within  my  bosom! 
Well  might  those  memories  take  each  a  voice  to  accuse  them! 
Well,  from  that  hell,  might  rise  the  Alecto!  Their  lives  were 
in  my  power!  My  fatal  dowry  at  my  command — rapid  death, 
or  slow  consuming  torture ;  but  to  have  seen  each  cheer  the 
other  to  the  grave,  lighting  every  downward  step  with  the  eyes 
of  love — vengeance,  so  urged,  would  have  fallen  only  on  my- 
self! Ha!  deceiver,  didst  thou  plume  thyself,  forsooth,  on 
spotless  reputation?  Didst  thou  stand,  me  by  thy  side, 
amongst  thy  perjured  household  gods,  and  talk  of  honor?  Thy 
home — it  is  reft  from  thee!  Thy  reputation,  it  is  a  scoff! 
Thine  honor,  it  is  a  ghost  that  shall  haunt  thee !  Thy  love, 
can  it  linger  yet?  Shall  the  soft  eyes  of  thy  wife  not  burn  into 
thy  heart,  and  shame  turn  love  into  loathing?  Wrecks  of  my 
vengeance,  minions  of  my  bounty,  I  did  well  to  let  ye  live !  I 
shake  the  dust  from  my  feet  on  your  threshold;  live  on — home- 
less, hopeless,  and  childless!  The  curse  is  fulfilled!" 

From  that  hour  Lucretia  never  paused  from  her  career  to  in- 
quire further  of  her  victims ;  she  never  entered  into  communi- 
cation with  either.  They  knew  not  her  address,  nor  her  fate, 
nor  she  theirs.  As  she  had  reckoned,  Mainwaring  made  no 
effort  to  recover  himself  from  his  fall.  All  the  high  objects 
that  had  lured  his  ambition  were  gone  from  him  evermore. 
No  place  in  the  State,  no  authority  in  the  senate,  awaits  in 
England  the  man  with  a  blighted  name.  For  the  lesser  objects 
of  life,  he  had  no  heart,  and  no  care.  They  lived  in  obscurity 
in  a  small  village  in  Cornwall,  till  the  Peace  allowed  them  to 
remove  to  France.  The  rest  of  their  fate  is  known. 

Meanwhile,  Lucretia  removed  to  one  of  those  smaller  Lon- 
dons — resorts  of  pleasure  and  idleness,  with  which  rich  England 
abounds,  and  in  which  widows  of  limited  income  can  make 
poverty  seem  less  plebeian.  And  now,  to  all  those  passions 
that  had  hitherto  raged  within  her,  a  dismal  apathy  succeeded. 
It  was  the  great  calm  in  her  state  of  life.  The  winds  fell,  and 
the  sails  drooped.  Her  vengeance  satisfied,  that  which  she 
had  made  so  preternaturally  the  main  object  of  existence,  once 
fulfilled,  left  her  in  youth  obiectless. 


LUCRETIA.  317 

She  strove  at  first  to  take  pleasure  in  the  society  of  the  place, 
but  its  frivolities  and  pettiness  of  purpose  soon  wearied  that  mas- 
culine and  grasping  mind,  already  made  insensible  to  the  often 
healthful,  often  innocent,  excitement  of  trifles,  by  the  terrible 
ordeal  it  had  passed.  Can  the  touch  of  the  hand,  scorched  by  the 
burning  iron,  feel  pleasure  in  the  softness  of  silk,  or  the  light 
down  of  the  cygnet's  plume?  She  next  sought  such  relief  as 
study  could  afford ;  and  her  natural  bent  of  thought,  and  her  de- 
sire to  vindicate  her  deeds  to  herself,  plunged  her  into  the  fath- 
omless abyss  of  metaphysical  inquiry,  with  the  hope  to  confirm 
into  positive  assurance  her  earlier  scepticism ;  with  the  atheist's 
hope  to  annihilate  the  soul,  and  banish  the  presiding  God. 
But  no  voice  that  could  satisfy  her  reason  came  from  those 
dreary  deeps:  contradiction  on  contradiction  met  her  in  the 
maze.  Only  when,  wearied  with  book-lore,  she  turned  her 
eyes  to  the  visible  nature,  and  beheld  everywhere  harmony, 
order,  system,  contrivance,  art,  did  she  start  with  the  amaze 
and  awe  of  instinctive  conviction ;  and  the  natural  religion  re- 
volted from  her  cheerless  ethics!  Then  came  one  of  those 
sudden  reactions  common  with  strong  passions  and  exploring 
minds :  but  more  common  with  women,  however  manlike,  than 
with  men.  Had  she  lived  in  Italy  then,  she  had  become  a 
nun!  For  in  this  woman,  unlike  Varney  and  Dalibard,  the 
conscience  could  never  be  utterly  silenced.  In  her  choice  of 
evil,  she  found  only  torture  to  her  spirit  in  all  the  respites 
afforded  to  the  occupations  it  indulged.  When  employed  upon 
ill,  remorse  gave  way  to  the  zest  of  scheming ;  when  the  ill  was 
done,  remorse  came  with  the  repose. 

It  was  in  this  peculiar  period  of  her  life  that  Lucretia,  turn- 
ing everywhere,  and  desperately,  for  escape  from  the  past,  be- 
came acquainted  with  some  members  of  one  of  the  most  rigid 
of  the  sects  of  dissent.  At  first,  she  permitted  herself  to  know 
and  commune  with  these  persons  from  a  kind  of  contemptuous 
curiosity;  she  desired  to  encourage,  in  contemplating  them, 
her  experience  of  the  follies  of  human  nature ;  but  in  that  crisis 
of  her  mind,  in  those  struggles  of  her  reason,  whatever  showed 
that  which  she  yearned  most  to  discover,  vi/..,  earnest  faith, 
rooted  and  genuine  conviction,  whether  of  annihilation  or  of 
immortality — a  philosophy  that  might  reconcile  her  to  crime  by 
destroying  the  providence  of  good,  or  a  creed  that  could  hold 
out  the  hope  of  redeeming  the  past,  and  exercising  sin  by  the 
mystery  of  a  Divine  sacrifice — had  over  her  a  power  which  she 
had  not  imagined  or  divined.  Gradually  the  intense  convic- 
tions of  her  new  associates  disturbed  and  infected  her.  The; .' 


318  LUCRETIA. 

affirmations,  that  as  we  are  born  in  wrath,  so  sin  is  our  second 
nature,  our  mysterious  heritage,  seemed,  to  her  understanding, 
willing  to  be  blinded,  to  imply  excuses  for  her  past  misdeeds. 
Their  assurances  that  the  worst  sinner  may  become  the  most 
earnest  saint ;  that  through  but  one  act  of  the  will,  resolute 
faith,  all  redemption  is  to  be  found ;  these  affirmations  and 
these  assurances,  which  have  so  often  restored  the  guilty,  and 
remodelled  the  human  heart,  made  a  salutary,  if  brief,  impres- 
sion upon  her.  Nor  were  the  lives  of  these  dissenters  (for  the 
most  part,  austerely  moral),  nor  the  peace  and  self-compla- 
cency which  they  evidently  found  in  the  satisfaction  of  con- 
science and  fulfilment  of  duty,  without  an  influence  over  her, 
that,  for  awhile,  both  chastened  and  soothed. 

Hopeful  of  such  a  convert,  the  good  teachers  strove  hard  to 
confirm  the  seeds,  springing  up  from  the  granite  and  amidst 
the  weeds ;  and  amongst  them  came  one  man  more  eloquent, 
more  seductive  than  the  rest,  Alfred  Braddell.  This  person,  a 
trader  at  Liverpool,  was  one  of  those  strange  living  paradoxes 
that  can  rarely  be  found  out  of  a  commercial  community.  He 
himself  had  been  a  convert  to  the  sect,  and  like  most  converts, 
he  pushed  his  enthusiasm  into  the  bigotry  of  the  zealot.  He 
saw  no  salvation  out  of  the  pale  into  which  he  had  entered; 
but  though  his  belief  was  sincere,  it  did  not  genially  operate 
on  his  practical  life;  with  the  most  scrupulous  attention  to 
forms,  he  had  the  worldliness  and  cunning  of  the  carnal.  He 
had  abjured  the  vices  of  the  softer  senses,  but  not  that  which 
so  seldom  wars  on  the  decorums  of  outer  life.  He  was  essen- 
tially a  money-maker — close,  acute,  keen,  over-reaching.  Good 
works  with  him  were  indeed  as  nothing;  faith,  the  all  in  all. 
He  was  one  of  the  elect,  and  could  not  fall.  Still  in  this  man 
there  was  all  the  intensity  which  often  characterizes  a  mind  in 
proportion  to  the  narrowness  of  its  compass;  that  intensity  gave 
fire  to  his  gloomy  eloquence,  and  strength  to  his  obstinate  will. 
He  saw  Lucretia,  and  his  zeal  for  her  conversion  soon  ex- 
panded into  love  for  her  person ;  yet  that  love  was  secondary 
to  his  covetousness.  Though  ostensibly  in  a  flourishing  busi- 
ness, he  was  greatly  distressed  for  money  to  carry  on  operations 
which  swelled  beyond  the  reach  of  his  capital;  his  fingers 
itched  for  the  sum  which  Lucretia  had  still  at  her  disposal : 
but  the  seeming  sincerity  of  the  man,  the  persuasion  of  his 
goodness,  his  reputation  for  sanctity,  deceived  her ;  she  be- 
lieved herself  honestly  and  ardently  beloved,  and  by  one  who 
could  guide  her  back,  if  not  to  happiness,  at  least  to  repose. 
She  herself  loved  him  not;  she  could  love  no  more.  But  it 


LUCRETIA.  319 

seemed  to  her  a  luxury  to  find  some  one  she  could  trust,  she 
could  honor.  If  you  had  probed  into  the  recesses  of  her  mind 
at  that  time,  you  would  have  found  that  no  religious  belief  was 
there  settled,  only  the  desperate  wish  to  believe;  only  the  dis- 
turbance of  all  previous  infidelity;  only  a  restless,  gnawing 
desire  to  escape  from  memory,  to  emerge  from  the  gulf.  In 
this  troubled,  impatient,,  disorder  of  mind  and  feeling,  she  hur- 
ried into  a  second  marriage  as  fatal  as  the  first. 

For  a  while  she  bore  patiently  all  the  privations  of  that  ascetic 
household;  assisted  in  all  those  external  formalities,  centred 
all  her  intellect  within  that  iron  range  of  existence.  But  no 
grace  descended  on  her  soul,  no  warm  ray  unlocked  the  ice  of 
the  well.  Then,  gradually  becoming  aware  of  the  niggardly 
meannesses,  of  the  harsh,  uncharitable  judgments,  of  the  decor- 
ous frauds,  that,  with  unconscious  hypocrisy,  her  husband 
concealed  beneath  the  robes  of  sanctity,  a  weary  disgust  stole 
over  her ;  it  stole,  it  deepened,  it  increased ;  it  became  intoler- 
able, when  she  discovered  that  Braddell  had  knowingly  de- 
ceived her  as  to  his  worldly  substance.  In  that  mood  into 
which  she  had  rushed  into  these  ominous  nuptials,  she  had 
had  no  thought  for  vulgar  advantages;  had  Braddell  been  a 
beggar,  she  had  married  him  as  rashly.  But  he,  with  the  in- 
ability to  comprehend  a  nature  like  hers — dim  not  more  to  her 
terrible  vices  than  to  the  sinister  grandeur  which  made  their 
ordinary  atmosphere — had  descended  cunningly  to  address  the 
avarice  he  thought  as  potent  in  others  as  himself,  to  enlarge  on 
the  worldly  prosperity  with  which  Providence  had  blessed  him'; 
and  now  she  saw  that  her  dowry  alone  had  saved  the  crippled 
trader  from  the  bankrupt  list.  With  this  revolting  discovery, 
with  the  scorn  it  produced,  vanished  all  Lucretia's  unstable 
visions  of  reform.  She  saw  this  man  a  saint  amongst  his  tribe, 
and  would  not  believe  in  the  virtues  of  his  brethren,  great  and 
unquestionable  as  they  might  have  been  proved  to  a  more  dis- 
passionate and  humble  inquirer.  The  imposture  she  detected, 
she  deemed  universal  in  the  circle  in  which  she  dwelt;  and 
Satan  once  more  smiled  upon  the  subject  he  regained.  Lucre- 
tia  became  a  mother,  but  their  child  formed  no  endearing  tie 
between  the  ill-assorted  pair ;  it  rather  embittered  their  discord. 
Dimly,  even  then,  as  she  bent  over  the  cradle,  that  vision  which 
now,  in  the  old  house  at  Brompton,  haunted  her  dreams,  and 
beckoned  her  over  seas  of  blood  into  the  fancied  future,  was 
foreshadowed  in  the  face  of  her  infant  son.  To  be  born  again 
in  that  birth,  to  live  only  in  that  life,  to  aspire  as  man  may 
aspire,  in  that  future  man  whom  she  would  train  to  knowledge 


320  LUCRETIA. 

and  lead  to  power — these  were  the  feelings  with  which  thai 
sombre  mother  gazed  upon  her  babe.  The  idea  that  the  low- 
born, grovelling  father  had  the  sole  right  over  that  son's  des- 
tiny, had  the  authority  to  cabin  his  mind  in  the  walls  of  form, 
bind  him  down  to  the  sordid  apprenticeship,  debased,  not  dig- 
nified, by  the  solemn  mien,  roused  her  indignant  wrath ;  she 
sickened  when  Braddell  touched  her  child.  All  her  pride  of 
intellect,  that  had  never  slept ;  all  her  pride  of  birth,  long  dor- 
mant, woke  up  to  protect  the  heir  of  her  ambition,  the  descend- 
ant of  her  race,  from  the  defilement  of  the  father's  nurture. 
Not  long  after  her  confinement,  she  formed  a  plan  for  escape ; 
she  disappeared  from  the  house  with  her  child.  Taking  refuge 
in  a  cottage,  living  on  the  sale  of  the  few  jewels  she  possessed, 
she  was  for  some  weeks  almost  happy.  But  Braddell,  less 
grieved  by  the  loss  than  shocked  by  the  scandal,  was  indefati- 
gable in  his  researches — he  discovered  her  retreat.  The  scene 
between  them  was  terrible.  There  was  no  resisting  the  power 
which  all  civilized  laws  give  to  the  rights  of  husband  and 
father.  Before  this  man,  whom  she  scorned  so  unutterably, 
Lucretia  was  impotent.  Then,  all  the  boiling  passions  long 
suppressed  beneath  that  command  of  temper,  which  she  owed 
both  to  habitual  simulation  and  intense  disdain,  rushed  forth. 
Then,  she  appalled  the  impostor  with  her  indignant  denuncia- 
tions of  his  hypocrisy,  his  meanness,  and  his  guile.  Then, 
throwing  off  the  mask  she  had  worn,  she  hurled  her  anathema 
on  his  sect,  on  his  faith,  with  the  same  breath  that  smote  his 
conscience  and  left  it  wordless.  She  shocked  all  the  notions 
he  sincerely  entertained,  and  he  stood  awed  by  accusations 
from  a  blasphemer  whom  he  dared  not  rebuke.  His  rage 
broke  at  length  from  his  awe.  Stung,  maddened  by  the  scorn 
of  himself,  his  blood  fired  into  juster  indignation  by  her  scoff 
at  his  creed,  he  lost  all  self-possession,  and  struck  her  to  the 
ground.  In  the  midst  of  shame  and  dread  at  disclosure  of  his 
violence,  which  succeeded  the  act  so  provoked,  he  vas  not  less 
relieved  than  amazed  when  Lucretia,  rising  slowly,  laid  her 
hand  gently  on  his  arm,  and  said:  "Repent  not,  it  is  past; 
fear  not,  I  will  be  silent !  Come,  you  are  the  stronger — you 
prevail.  I  will  follow  my  child  to  your  home." 

In  this  unexpected  submission  in  one  so  imperious,  Braddell's 
imperfect  comprehension  of  character  saw  but  fear,  and  his 
stupidity  exulted  in  his  triumph.  Lucretia  returned  with  him. 
A  few  days  afterwards,  Braddell  became  ill;  the  illness  in- 
creased,— slow,  gradual,  wearing.  It  broke  his  spirit  with  his 
health;  and  then  the  steadfast  imperiousness  of  Lucretia' s  sterri 


LtTCRETtA.  321 

will  ruled  and  subjugated  him.  He  cowered  beneath  her 
haughty,  searching  gaze ;  he  shivered  at  her  sidelong,  malig- 
nant glance;  but  with  this  fear  came  necessarily  hate;  and  this 
hate,  sometimes  sufficing  to  vanquish  the  fear,  spitefully  evinced 
itself  in  thwarting  her  legitimate  control  over  her  infant.  He 
would  have  it  (though  he  had  little  real  love  for  children)  con- 
stantly with  him,  and  affected  to  contradict  all  her  own  orders 
to  the  servants,  in  the  sphere  in  which  mothers  arrogate  most 
the  right.  Only  on  these  occasions  sometimes  would  Lucretia 
lose  her  grim  self-control,  and  threaten  that  her  child  yet  should 
be  emancipated  from  his  hands;  should  yet  be  taught  the  scorn 
for  hypocrites  which  he  had  taught  herself.  These  words  sank 
deep,  not  only  in  the  resentment,  but  in  the  conscience  of  the 
husband.  Meanwhile,  Lucretia  scrupled  not  to  evince  her  dis- 
dain of  Braddell,  by  markedly  abstaining  from  all  the  cere- 
monies she  had  before  so  rigidly  observed.  The  sect  grew 
scandalized.  Braddell  did  not  abstain  from  making  known  his 
causes  of  complaint.  The  haughty,  imperious  woman  was  con- 
demned in  the  community,  and  hated  in  the  household. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  Walter  Ardworth,  who  was  then  striv- 
ing to  eke  out  his  means  by  political  lectures  (which  at  the 
earlier  part  of  the  century  found  ready  audience)  in  our  great 
towns,  came  to  Liverpool.  Braddell  and  Ardworth  had  been 
schoolfellows,  and  even  at  school,  embryo  politicians  of  con- 
genial notions;  and  the  conversion  of  the  former  to  one  of  the 
sects  which  had  grown  out  of  the  old  creeds,  that,  under  Crom- 
well, had  broken  the  sceptre  of  the  son  of  Belial,  and  established 
the  Commonwealth  of  Saints,  had  only  strengthened  the  repub- 
lican tenets  of  the  sour  fanatic.  Ardworth  called  on  Braddell, 
and  was  startled  to  find  in  his  schoolfellow's  wife  the  niece  of 
his  benefactor,  Sir  Miles  St.  John.  Now,  Lucretia  had  never 
divulged  her  true  parentage  to  her  husband.  In  an  union  so 
much  beneath  her  birth,  she  had  desired  to  conceal  from  all  her 
connections  the  fall  of  the  once-honored  heiress.  She  had  de- 
scended, in  search  of  peace,  to  obscurity;  but  her  pride  re- 
volted from  the  thought  that  her  low-born  husband  might  boast 
of  her  connections,  and  parade  her  descent  to  his  level.  For- 
tunately, as  she  thought,  she  received  Ardworth  before  he  was 
admitted  to  her  husband,  who  now,  growing  feebler  and  feebler, 
usually  kept  his  room.  She  stooped  to  beseech  Ardworth  not 
to  reveal  her  secret,  and  he,  comprehending  her  pride,  as  a  man 
well-born  himself,  and  pitying  her  pain,  readily  gave  his  prom- 
ise. At  the  first  interview,  Braddell  evinced  no  pleasure  in 
the  sight  of  his  old  schoolfellow.  It  was  natural  enough  that 


322  LUCRETIA. 

one  so  precise  should  be  somewhat  revolted  by  one  so  careless 
of  all  form.  But  when  Lucretia  imprudently  evinced  satisfac- 
tion at  his  surly  remarks  on  his  visitor;  when  he  perceived  that 
it  would  please  her  that  he  should  not  cultivate  the  acquain- 
tance offered  him,  he  was  moved  by  the  spirit  of  contradiction, 
and  the  spiteful  delight  even  in  frivolous  annoyance,  to  concili- 
ate and  court  the  intimacy  he  had  at  first  disdained;  and  then,  by 
degrees,  sympathy  in  political  matters  and  old  recollections  of 
sportive,  careless  boyhood  cemented  the  intimacy  into  a  more 
familiar  bond  than  the  sectarian  had  contracted  really  with  any 
of  his  late  associates. 

Lucretia  regarded  this  growing  friendship  with  great  uneasi- 
ness— the  uneasiness  increased  to  alarm,  when  one  day,  in  the 
presence  of  Ardworth,  Braddell,  writhing  with  a  sudden  spasm, 
said:  "I  cannot  account  for  these  strange  seizures;  I  think 
verily  I  am  poisoned!"  and  his  dull  eye  rested  on  Lucretia's 
pallid  brow.  She  was  unusually  thoughtful  for  some  days  after 
this  remark,  and  one  morning  she  informed  her  husband  that 
she  had  received  the  intelligence  that  a  relation,  from  whom 
she  had  pecuniary  expectations,  was  dangerously  ill,  and  re- 
quested his  permission  to  visit  this  sick  kinsman,  who  dwelt  in 
a  distant  county.  Braddell's  eyes  brightened  at  the  thought  of 
her  absence;  with  little  further  questioning  he  consented;  and 
Lucretia,  sure  perhaps  that  the  barb  was  in  the  side  of  her  vic- 
tim, and  reckoning,  it  may  be,  on  greater  freedom  from  sus- 
picion if  her  husband  died  in  her  absence,  left  the  house.  It 
was,  indeed,  to  the  neighborhood  of  her  kindred  that  she  went. 
In  a  private  conversation  with  Ardworth,  when  questioning 
him  of  his  news  of  the  present  possessor  of  Laughton,  he  had 
informed  her  that  he  had  heard  accidentally  that  Vernon's  two 
sons  (Percival  was  not  then  born)  were  sickly;  and  she  went 
into  Hampshire,  secretly  and  unknown,  to  see  what  were  really 
the  chances  that  her  son  might  yet  become  the  lord  of  her  lost 
inheritance. 

During  this  absence,  Braddell,  now  gloomily  aware  that  his 
days  were  numbered,  resolved  to  put  into  practice  the  idea 
long  contemplated,  and  even  less  favored  by  his  spite  than  justi- 
fied by  the  genuine  convictions  of  his  conscience.  Whatever 
his  faults,  sincere  at  least  in  his  religious  belief,  he  might  well 
look  with  dread  to  the  prospect  of  the  training  and  education 
his  son  would  receive  from  the  hands  of  a  mother  who  had 
blasphemed  his  sect,  and  openly  proclaimed  her  infidelity.  By 
will,  it  is  true,  he  might  create  a  trust,  and  appoint  guardians 
to  his  child.  But  to  have  lived  under  the  same  roof  with  his* 


LUCREftA.  323 

wife,  nay,  to  have  carried  her  back  to  that  roof  when  she  had 
left  it,  afforded  tacit  evidence  that  whatever  the  disagreement 
between  them,  her  conduct  could  hardly  have  merited  her  ex- 
clusion from  the  privileges  of  a  mother.  The  guardianship 
might  therefore  avail  little  to  frustrate  Lucretia's  indirect  con- 
tamination, if  not  her  positive  control.  Besides,  where  guar- 
dians are  appointed  money  must  be  left;  and  Braddell  knew 
that  at  his  death  his  assets  would  be  found  insufficient  for  his 
debts.  Who  would  be  guardian  to  a  penniless  infant?  He 
resolved,  therefore,  to  send  his  child  from  his  roof,  to  some 
place  where,  if  reared  humbly,  it  might  at  least  be  brought  up 
in  the  right  faith — some  place  which  might  defy  the  search  and 
be  beyond  the  perversion  of  the  unbelieving  mother.  He  looked 
round,  and  discovered  no  instrument  for  his  purpose  that 
seemed  so  ready  as  Walter  Ardworth.  For  by  this  time  he  had 
thoroughly  excited  the  pity  and  touched  the  heart  of  that  good- 
natured,  easy  man.  His  representations  of  the  misconduct  of 
Lucretia  were  the  more  implicitly  believed  by  one  who  had 
always  been  secretly  prepossessed  against  her ;  who,  admitted 
to  household  intimacy,  was  an  eye-witness  to  her  hard  indiffer- 
ence to  her  husband's  sufferings;  who  saw  in  her  very  request 
not  to  betray  her  gentle  birth,  the  shame  she  felt  in  her  election ; 
who  regarded  with  indignation  her  unfeeling  desertion  of  Brad- 
dell  in  his  last  moments,  and  who,  besides  all  this,  had  some 
private  misfortunes  of  his  own,  which  made  him  the  more 
ready  listener  to  themes  on  the  faults  of  women,  and  had  al- 
ready, by  mutual  confidences,  opened  the  hearts  of  the  two  an- 
cient schoolfellows  to  each  other's  complaints  and  wrongs.  The 
only  other  confidante  in  the  refuge  selected  for  the  child  was 
a  member  of  the  same  community  as  Braddell,  who  kindly 
undertook  to  search  for  a  pious,  godly  woman,  who,  upon  such 
pecuniary  considerations  as  Braddell,  by  robbing  his  creditors, 
could  afford  to  bestow,  would  permanently  offer  to  the  poor 
infant  a  mother's  home  and  a  mother's  care.  When  this  woman 
was  found,  Braddell  confided  his  child  to  Ardworth,  with  such 
a  sum  as  he  could  scrape  together  for  its  future  maintenance. 
And  to  Ardworth,  rather  than  to  his  fellow-sectarian,  this 
double  trust  was  given,  because  the  latter  feared  scandal  and 
misrepresentation,  if  he  should  be  ostensibly  mixed  up  in  so 
equivocal  a  charge.  Poor  and  embarrassed  as  Walter  Ard- 
worth was,  Braddell  did  not  for  once  misinterpret  character 
when  he  placed  the  money  in  his  hands,  and  this  because  the 
characters  we  have  known  in  transparent  boyhood  we  have 
known  forever.  Ardworth  was  reckless,  and  his  whole  life 


324  LUCRETIA. 

had  been  wrecked,  his  whole  nature  materially  degraded,  by  the 
want  of  common  thrift  and  prudence.  His  own  money  slipped 
through  his  fingers,  and  left  him  surrounded  by  creditors,  whom, 
rigidly  speaking,  he  thus  defrauded ;  but  direct  dishonesty  was 
as  wholly  out  of  the  chapter  of  his  vices,  as  if  he  had  been  a 
man  of  the  strictest  principles  and  the  steadiest  honor. 

The  child  was  gone — the  father  died — Lucretia  returned,  as 
we  have  seen  in  Grabman's  letter,  to  the  house  of  death,  to 
meet  suspicion  and  cold  looks,  and  menial  accusations,  and  an 
inquest  on  the  dead :  but  through  all  this  the  reft  tigress 
mourned  her  stolen  whelp.  As  soon  as  all  evidence  against  her 
was  proved  legally  groundless,  and  she  had  leave  to  depart,  she 
searched  blindly  and  frantically  for  her  lost  child;  but  in  vain. 
The  utter  and  penniless  destitution  in  which  she  was  left  by 
her  husband's  decease  did  not  suffice  to  terminate  her  madden- 
ing chase.  On  foot  she  wandered  from  village  to  village,  and 
begged  her  way,  wherever  a  false  clue  misled  her  steps. 

At  last,  in  reluctant  despair,  she  resigned  the  pursuit,  and 
found  herself  one  day  in  the  midst  of  the  streets  of  London, 
half-famished  and  in  rags;  and  before  her  suddenly,  now 
grown  into  vigorous  youth,  blooming,  sleek,  and  seemingly 
prosperous,  stood  Gabriel  Varney.  By  her  voice,  as  she  ap- 
proached and  spoke,  he  recognized  his  stepmother;  and,  after 
a  s"hort  pause  of  hesitation,  he  led  her  to  his  home.  It  is  not 
our  purpose  (for  it  is  not  necessary  to  those  passages  of  their 
lives  from  which  we  have  selected  the  thread  of  our  tale)  to 
follow  these  two  thus  united,  through  their  general  career  of 
spoliation  and  crime.  Birds  of  prey,  they  searched  in  human 
follies  and  human  errors  for  their  food:  sometimes  severed, 
sometimes  together,  their  interests  remained  one.  Varney  prof- 
ited by  the  mightier  and  subtler  genius  of  evil  to  which  he  had 
leashed  himself;  for,  caring  little  for  luxuries,  and  dead  to  the 
softer  senses,  she  abandoned  to  him  readily  the  larger  share  of 
their  plunder.  Under  a  variety  of  names  and  disguises, 
through  a  succession  of  frauds,  some  vast  and  some  mean,  but 
chiefly  on  the  Continent,  they  had  pursued  their  course,  elud- 
ing all  danger,  and  baffling  all  law. 

Between  three  and  four  years  before  this  period,  Varney's 
uncle  the  painter,  by  one  of  those  unexpected  caprices  of  for- 
tune which  sometimes  find  heirs  to  a  millionnaire  at  the  weaver's 
loom  or  the  laborer's  plough,  had  suddenly,  by  the  death  of  a 
very  distant  kinsman,  whom  he  had  never  seen,  come  into  pos- 
session of  a  small  estate,  which  he  sold  for  £6000.  Retiring 
from  his  profession,  he  lived,  as  comfortably  as  his  shattered 


LUCRETIA.  325 

constitution  permitted,  upon  the  interest  of  this  sum ;  and  he 
wrote  to  his  nephew,  then  at  Paris,  to  communicate  the  good 
news,  and  offer  the  hospitality  of  his  heart.  Varney  hastened 
to  London.  Shortly  afterwards  a  nurse,  recommended  as  an  ex- 
perienced, useful  person  in  her  profession,  by  Nicholas  Grab- 
man,  who  in  many  a  tortuous  scheme  had  been  Gabriel's  con- 
federate, was  installed  in  the  poor  painter's  house.  From  that 
time  his  infirmities  increased.  He  died,  as  his  doctor  said, 
"by  abstaining  from  the  stimulants  to  which  his  constitution 
had  been  so  long  accustomed,"  and  Gabriel  Varney  was  sum- 
moned to  the  reading  of  the  will.  To  his  inconceivable  dis- 
appointment, instead  of  bequeathing  to  his  nephew  the  free  dis- 
posal of  his  £6000,  that  sum  was  assigned  to  trustees  for  the 
benefit  of  Gabriel  and  his  children  yet  unborn:  "An  induce- 
ment," said  the  poor  testator  tenderly,  "for  the  boy  to  marry 
and  reform!"  So  that  the  nephew  could  only  enjoy  the  in- 
terest, and  had  no  control  over  the  capital.  The  interest  of 
£6000  invested  in  the  Bank  of  England,  \fasjlocci,  nauci  to 
the  voluptuous  spendthrift,  Gabriel  Varney! 

Now  these  trustees  were  selected  from  the  painter's  earlier 
and  more  respectable  associates,  who  had  dropped  him,  it  is 
true,  in  his  days  of  beggary  and  disrepute,  but  whom  the  for- 
tune that  made  him  respectable  had  again  conciliated.  One 
of  these  trustees  had  lately  retired  to  pass  the  remainder  of  his 
days  at  Boulogne ;  the  other  was  a  hypochondriacal  valetudin- 
arian. Neither  of  them,  in  short,  a  man  of  business.  Ga- 
briel was  left  to  draw  out  the  interest  of  the  money,  as  it  becarpe 
perodically  due  at  the  Bank  of  England.  In  a  few  months, 
the  trustee  settled  at  Boulogne  died;  the  trust,  of  course,  lapsed 
to  Mr.  Stubmore,  the  valetudinarian  survivor.  Soon  pinched 
by  extravagances,  and  emboldened  by  the  character  and  help- 
less state  of  the  surviving  trustee,  Varney  forged  Mr.  Stub- 
more's  signature  to  an  order  on  the  Bank,  to  sell  out  such 
portion  of  the  capital  as  his  wants  required.  The  impunity  of 
one  offence  begot  courage  for  others,  till  the  whole  was  well- 
nigh  expended.  Upon  these  sums  Varney  had  lived  very 
pleasantly,  and  he  saw  with  a  deep  sigh  the  approaching  failure 
of  so  facile  a  resource. 

In  one  of  the  melancholy  moods  engendered  by  this  reflec- 
tion, Varney  happened  to  be  in  the  very  town  in  France  in 
which  the  Mainwarings,  in  their  later  years,  had  taken  refuge, 
and  from  which  Helen  had  been  removed  to  the  roof  of  Mr. 
Fielden.  By  accident  he  heard  the  name,  and,  his  curiosity 
leading  to  further  inquiries,  learned  that  Helen  was  made  an 


326  LUCRETIA. 

heiress  by  the  will  of  her  grandfather.  With  this  knowledge 
came  a  thought  of  the  most  treacherous,  the  most  miscreant, 
and  the  vilest  crime,  that  even  he  yet  had  perpetrated ;  so 
black  was  it,  that  for  a  while  he  absolutely  struggled  against 
it.  But  in  guilt  there  seems  ever  a  Necessity,  that  urges  on 
step  after  step,  to  the  last  consummation.  Varney  received  a 
letter  to  inform  him  that  the  last  surviving  trustee  was  no  more; 
that  the  trust  was,  therefore,  now  centred  in  his  son  and  heir; 
that  that  gentleman  was  at  present  very  busy  in  settling  his  own 
affairs,  and  examining  into  a  very  mismanaged  property  in 
Devonshire  which  had  devolved  upon  him;  but  that  he  hoped 
in  a  few  months  to  discharge,  more  efficiently  than  his  father 
had  done,  the  duties  of  trustee,  and  that  some  more  profitable 
investment  than  the  Bank  of  England  would  probably  occur. 

This  new  trustee  was  known  personally  to  Varney — a  con- 
temporary of  his  own,  and,  in  earlier  youth,  a  pupil  to  his 
uncle.  But  since  then  he  had  made  way  in  life,  and  retired  from 
the  profession  of  Art.  This  younger  Stubmore  he  knew  to  be 
a  bustling,  officious  man  of  business;  somewhat  greedy  and 
covetous,  but  withal  somewhat  weak  of  purpose,  good- 
natured  in  the  main,  and  with  a  little  lukewarm  kindness 
for  Gabriel,  as  a  quondam  fellow-pupil.  That  Stubmore 
would  discover  the  fraud  it  was  evident ;  that  he  would  de- 
clare it,  for  his  own  sake,  was  evident  also;  that  the  Bank 
would  prosecute;  that  Varney  would  be  convicted,  was  no  less 
surely  to  be  apprehended.  There  was  only  one  chance  left  to 
the  forger:  if  he  could  get  into  his  hands,  and  in  time,  before 
Stubmore's  bustling  interference,  a  sum  sufficient  to  replace 
what  had  been  fraudulently  taken,  he  might  easily  manage,  he 
thought,  to  prevent  the  forgery  ever  becoming  known.  Nay, 
if  Stubmore,  roused  into  strict  personal  investigation ,  by  the 
new  Power  of  Attorney  which  a  new  investment  in  the  Bank 
would  render  necessary,  should  ascertain  what  had  occurred, 
his  liabilities  being  now  indemnified,  and  the  money  replaced, 
Varney  thought  he  could  confidently  rely  on  his  ci-devant  fel- 
low-pupil's assent  to  wink  at  the  forgery,  and  hush  up  the  mat- 
ter. But  this  was  his  only  chance.  How  was  the  money  to  be 
gained?  He  thought  of  Helen's  fortune,  and  the  last  scruple 
gave  way  to  the  imminence  of  his  peril,  and  the  urgency  of 
his  fears. 

With  this  decision  he  repaired  to  Lucretia,  whose  concur- 
rence was  necessary  to  his  designs.  Long  habits  of  crime  had 
now  deepened  still  more  the  dark  and  stern  color  of  that  dread 
woman's  sombre  nature.  But  through  all  that  had  g-roimd  the 


LUCRETIA.  327 

humanity  from  her  soul,  one  human  sentiment,  fearfully  tainted 
and  adulterated  as  it  was,  still  struggled  for  life — the  memory 
of  the  mother.  It  was  by  this,  her  least  criminal  emotion,  that 
Varney  led  her  to  the  worst  of  her  crimes.  He  offered  to  sell 
out  the  remainder  of  the  trust-money  by  a  fresh  act  of  forgery ; 
to  devote  such  proceeds  to  the  search  for  her  lost  Vincent ;  he 
revived  the  hopes  she  had  long  since  gloomily  relinquished, 
till  she  began  to  conceive  the  discovery  easy  and  certain.  He 
then  brought  before  her  the  prospect  of  that  son's  succession 
to  Laughton — but  two  lives  now  between  him  and  those  broad 
lands;  those  two  lives,  associated  with  just  cause  of  revenge! 
Two  lives !  Lucretia,  till  then,  did  not  know  that  Susan  had 
left  a  child ;  that  a  pledge  of  those  nuptials,  to  which  she  im- 
puted all  her  infamy,  existed  to  revive  a  jealousy  never  extin- 
guished, appeal  to  the  hate  that  had  grown  out  of  her  love. 
More  readily  than  Varney  had  anticipated,  and  with  fierce  ex- 
ultation, she  fell  into  his  horrible  schemes. 

Thus  had  she  returned  to  England,  and  claimed  the  guardian- 
ship of  her  niece.  Varney  engaged  a  dull  house  in  the  suburb, 
and  looking  out  for  a  servant,  not  likely  to  suspect  and  betray, 
found  the  nurse  who  had  watched  over  his  uncle's  last  illness; 
but  Lucretia,  according  to  her  invariable  practice,  rejected  all 
menial  accomplices,  reposed  no  confidence  in  the  tools  of  her 
black  deeds.  Feigning  an  infirmity  that  would  mock  all  sus- 
picion of  the  hand  that  mixed  the  draught,  and  the  step  that 
stole  to  the  slumber,  she  defied  the  justice  of  earth,  and  stood 
alone  under  the  omniscience  of  heaven. 

Various  considerations  had  delayed  the  execution  of  the 
atrocious  deed  so  coldly  contemplated.  Lucretia  herself  drew 
back ;  perhaps  more  daunted  by  conscience  than  she  herself  was 
distinctly  aware,  and  disguising  her  scruples  in  those  yet  foule-r 
refinements  of  hoped  revenge  which  her  conversations  with 
Varney  have  betrayed  to  the  reader.  The  failure  of  the  earlier 
researches  for  the  lost  Vincent,  the  suspended  activity  of  Stub- 
more,  left  the  more  impatient  murderer  leisure  to  make  the  ac- 
quaintance of  St.  John,  steal  into  the  confidence  of  Helen,  and 
render  the  Insurances  on  the  life  of  the  latter  less  open  to  sus- 
picion than  if  effected  immediately  on  her  entrance  into  that 
shamble-house,  and  before  she  could  be  supposed  to  form  that 
affection  for  her  aunt  which  made  probable  so  tender  a  fore- 
thought. These  causes  of  delay  now  vanished,  the  Parcse 
closed  the  abrupt  woof,  and  lifted  the  impending  shears. 

Lucretia  had  long  since  dropped  the  name  of  Braddell.  She 
shrank  from  proclaiming  those  second  spousals,  sullied  by  the 


328  LUCRETIA. 

degradation  to  which  they  had  exposed  her,  and  the  suspicions 
implied  on  the  inquest  on  her  husband,  until  the  hour  for  ac- 
knowledging her  son  should  arrive.  She  resumed,  therefore, 
the  name  of  Dalibard,  and  by  that  we  will  continue  to  call  her. 
Nor  was  Varney  uninfluential  in  dissuading  her  from  proclaim- 
ing her  second  marriage  till  occasion  necessitated.  If  the  son 
were  discovered,  and  the  proofs  of  his  birth  in  the  keeping  of 
himself  and  his  accomplice,  his  avarice  naturally  suggested  the 
expediency  of  wringing  from  that  son  some  pledge  of  adequate 
reward  on  succession  to  an  inheritance  which  they  alone  could 
secure  to  him :  out  of  this  fancied  fund,  not  only  Grabman, 
but  his  employer,  was  to  be  paid.  The  concealment  of  the 
identity  between  Mrs.  Braddell  and  Madame  Dalibard  might 
facilitate  such  an  arrangement.  This  idea  Varney  locked  as 
yet  in  his  own  breast.  He  did  not  dare  to  speak  to  Lucretia 
of  the  bargain-  he  ultimately  meditated  with  her  son. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 
MR.  GRABMAN'S  ADVENTURES. 

THE  lackeys  in  their  dress-liveries  stood  at  the  porch  of 
Laughton,  as  the  postilions  drove  rapidly  along  the  road, 
sweeping  through  venerable  groves  tinged  with  the  hues  of 
autumn,  up  to  that  stately  pile.  From  the  window  of  the 
large,  cumbrous  vehicle  which  Percival,  mindful  of  Madame 
Dalibard's  infirmity,  had  hired  for  her  especial  accommodation, 
Lucretia  looked  keenly  forth.  On  the  slope  of  the  hill  grouped 
the  deer  and  below,  where  the  lake  gleamed,  the  swan  rested 
on  the  wave.  Farther  on  to  the  left,  gaunt  and  stag-headed, 
rose,  living  still,  from  the  depths  of  the  glen,  Guy's  memorable 
oak.  Coming  now  in  sight,  though  at  a  distance,  the  gray 
church  tower  emerged  from  the  surrounding  masses  of  solemn 
foliage.  Suddenly,  the  road  curves  round,  and  straight  before 
her  (the  rooks  cawing  above  the  turrets,  the  sun  reflected  from 
the  vanes)  Lucretia  gazes  on  the  halls  of  Laughton.  And  didst 
thou  not,  O  Guy's  oak,  murmur  warning  from  thine  oracular 
hollows?  And  thou,  who  sleepest  below  the  church  tower, 
didst  thou  not  turn.  Miles  St.  John,  in  thy  grave,  when,  with 
such  tender  care,  the  young  Lord  of  Laughton  bore  that  silent 
guest  across  his  threshold,  and  with  credulous,  moistened 
eyes,  welcomed  Treason  and  Murther  to  his  hearth? 

There,  at  the  porch,  paused  Helen,  gazing  with  the  rapt  eye 
0f  the  poetess  on  the  broad  landscape,  checkered  by  the  vast 


LtJCfcETtA. 

shadows  cast  from  the  setting  sun.  There,  too,  by  her  side, 
lingered  Varney,  with  an  artist's  eye  for  the  stately  scene,  till 
a  thought,  not  of  art,  changed  the  face  of  the  earth,  and  the 
view  without  mirrored  back  the  Golgotha  of  his  soul. 

Leave  them  thus,  we  must  hurry  on. 

One  day  a  traveller  stopped  his  gig  at  a  public  house  in  a 
village  i\i  Lancashire.  He  chucked  his  rein  to  the  ostler,  and 
in  reply  to  a  question  what  oats  should  be  given  to  the  horse, 
said:  "Hay  and  water — the  beast  is  on  job."  Then  saunter- 
ing to  the  bar,  he  called  for  a  glass  of  raw  brandy  for  himself; 
and  while  the  host  drew  the  spirit  forth  from  the  tap,  he  asked, 
carelessly,  if,  some  years  ago,  a  woman  of  the  name  of  Joplin 
had  not  resided  in  the  village. 

"It  is  strange,"  said  the  host  musingly. 

"What  is  strange?" 

"Why,  we  have  just  had  a  gent  asking  the  same  question.  I 
have  only  been  here  nine  year  come  December,  but  my  old 
ostler  was  born  in  the  village,  and  never  left  it.  So  the  gent 
had  in  the  ostler,  and  he  is  now  gone  into  the  village  to  pick 
up  what  else  he  can  learn." 

This  intelligence  seemed  to  surprise  and  displease  the  trav- 
eller. "What  the  deuce,"  he  muttered,  "does  Jason  mistrust 
me?  Has  he  set  another  dog  on  the  scent?  Humph!"  He 
drained  off  his  brandy,  and  sallied  forth  to  confer  with  the 
ostler. 

"Well,  my  friend,"  said  Mr.  Grabman,  for  the  traveller  was 
no  other  than  that  worthy;  "well,  so  you  remember  Mrs.  Jop- 
lin, more  than  twenty  years  ago — eh?" 

"Yees,  I  guess;  more  than  twenty  years  since  she  left  the 
Pleck."* 

"Ah,  she  seems  to  have  been  a  restless  body — she  had  a 
child  with  her!" 

"Yees,  I  moind  that." 

"And  I  dare  say  you  heard  her  say  the  child  was  not  her 
own,  that  she  was  paid  well  for  it,  eh?" 

"Noa;  my  missus  did  not  loike  me  to  chaffer  much  with 
neighbor  Joplin,  for  she  was  but  a  bad  'un — pretty  fease, 
too.  She  lived  agin  the  ivogh  f  yonder,  where  you  see  that 
gent  coming  out." 

"Oho !     That  is  the  gent  who  was  asking  after  Mrs.  Joplin?" 

-"Yes;  and  he  giv'  me  half-a-croon ! "  said  the  clever  ostler, 
holding  out  his  hand. 

*  Pleck.—  Lancashire  and  Yorkshire,  synonym  for  flatt. 
t  A  nglicc — wall. 


330  LUCRETIA. 

Mr.  Grabman,  too  thoughtful,  too  jealous  of  his  rival,  to 
take  the  hint  at  that  moment,  darted  off,  as  fast  as  his  thin  legs 
could  carry  him,  towards  the  unwelcome  interferer  in  his  own 
business. 

Approaching  the  gentleman — a  tall,  powerful-looking  young 
man— he  somewhat  softened  his  tone,  and  mechanically 
touched  his  hat  as  he  said: 

"What,  sir,  are  you,  too,  in  search  of  Mrs.  Joplin?" 

"Sir,  I  am,"  answered  the  young  man,  eyeing  Grabman  de- 
liberately, "and  you,  I  suppose,  are  the  person  I  have  found 
before  me  on  the  same  search — first,  at  Liverpool;  next,  at 

C ,  about  fifteen  miles  from  that  town  ;  thirdly,  at  L ; 

and  now  we  meet  here.  You  have  had  the  start  of  me.  What 
have  you  learned?" 

Mr.  Grabman  smiled:  "Softly,  sir,  softly.  May  I  first  ask 
(since  open  questioning  seems  the  order  of  the  day)  whether  I 
have  the  honor  to  address  a  brother  practitioner — one  of  the 
law,  sir — one  of  the  law?" 

"I  am  one  of  the  law." 

Mr.  Grabman  bowed  and  scowled. 

"And  may  I  make  bold  to  ask  the  name  of  your  client? 

"Certainly,  you  may  ask.  Every  man  has  a  right  to  ask 
what  he  pleases,  in  a  civil  way." 

"But  you'll  not  answer?  Deep!  Oh,  I  understand!  Very 
good.  But  I  am  deep  too,  sir.  You  know  Mr.  Varney,  I 
suppose?" 

The  gentleman  looked  surprised.  His  bushy  brows  met  over 
his  steady,  sagacious  eyes;  but  after  a  moment's  pause,  the 
expression  of  the  face  cleared  up. 

"It  is  as  I  thought,"  he  said,  half  to  himself.  "Who  else 
could  have  had  an  interest  in  similar  inquiries?"  "Sir,"  he 
added,  with  a  quick  and  decided  tone,  '  'you  are,  doubtless, 
employed  by  Mr.  Varney  on  behalf  of  Madame  Dalibard,  and 
in  search  of  evidence  connected  with  the  loss  of  an  unhappy 
infant.  I  am  on  the  same  quest,  and  for  the  same  end.  The 
interests  of  your  client  are  mine.  Two  heads  are  better  than 
one;  let  us  unite  our  ingenuity  and  endeavors." 

"And  share  the  pec,  I  suppose?"  said  Grabman  dryly, 
buttoning  up  his  pockets. 

"Whatever  fee  you  may  expect,  you  will  have,  anyhow, 
whether  I  assist  you  or  not.  I  expect  no  fee,  for  mine  is  a 
personal  interest,  which  I  serve  gratuitously;  but  I  can  under- 
take to  promise  you,  on  my  own  part,  more  than  the  ordinary 
professional  reward  for  your  co-operation." 


"LUCRETIA.  33 1 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Grabman,  mollified,  "you  speak  very 
much  like  a  gentleman.  My  feelings  were  hurt  at  first,  I  own. 
I  am  hasty,  but  I  can  listen  to  reason.  Will  you  walk  back 
with  me  to  the  house  you  have  just  left?  And  suppose  we 
then  turn  in  and  have  a  chop  together,  and  compare  notes." 

"Willingly!"  answered  the  tall  stranger,  and  the  two  inquis- 
itors amicably  joined  company.  The  result  of  their  inquiries 
was  not,  however,  very  satisfactory.  No  one  knew  whither 
Mrs.  Joplin  had  gone,  though  all  agreed  it  was  in  company 
with  a  man  of  bad  character  and  vagrant  habits;  all  agreed, 
too,  in  the  vague  recollection  of  the  child,  and  some  remem- 
bered that  it  was  dressed  in  clothes  finer  than  would  have  been 
natural  to  an  infant  legally  and  filially  appertaining  to  Mrs. 
Joplin.  One  old  woman  remembered,  that  on  her  reproaching 
Mrs.  Joplin  for  some  act  of  great  cruelty  to  the  poor  babe,  she 
replied  that  it  was  not  her  flesh  and  blood,  and  that  if  she  had 
not  expected  more  than  she  had  got,  she  would  never  have 
undertaken  the  charge.  On  comparing  the  information 
gleaned  at  the  previous  places  of  their  research,  they  found  an 
entire  agreement  as  to  the  character  personally  borne  by  Mrs. 
Joplin.  At  the  village  to  which  their  inquiry  had  been  first 
detected,  she  was  known  as  a  respectable,  precise  young  woman, 
one  of  a  small  congregation  of  rigid  dissenters.  She  had  mar- 
ried a  member  of  the  sect,  and  borne  him  a  child,  which  died 
two  weeks  after  birth.  She  was  then  seen  nursing  another 
infant,  though  how  she  came  by  it,  none  knew.  Shortly  after 
this  her  husband,  a  journeyman  carpenter  of  good  repute,  died; 
but,  to  the  surprise  of  the  neighbors,  Mrs.  Joplin  continued  to 
live  as  comfortably  as  before,  and  seemed  not  to  miss  the  wages 
of  her  husband;  nay,  she  rather  now,  as  if  before  kept  back  by 
the  prudence  of  the  deceased,  launched  into  a  less  thrifty  mode 
of  life,  and  a  gayety  of  dress  at  variance  both  with  the  mourn- 
ing her  recent  loss  should  have  imposed,  and  the  austere  ten- 
ets of  her  sect.  This  indecorum  excited  angry  curiosity,  and 
drew  down  stern  remonstrance.  Mrs.  Joplin,  in  apparent  dis- 
gust with  this  intermeddling  with  her  affairs,  withdrew  from  the 
village  to  a  small  town,  about  twenty  miles  distant,  and  there 
set  up  a  shop.  But  her  moral  lapse  became  now  confirmed; 
her  life  was  notoriously  abandoned,  and  her  house  the  resort 
of  all  the  reprobates  of  the  place.  Whether  her  means  began 
to  be  exhausted,  or  the  scandal  she  provoked  attracted  the  no- 
tice of  the  magistrates,  and  imposed  a  check  on  her  course,  was 
not  very  certain,  but  she  sold  off  her  goods  suddenly,  and  was 
next  tracked  to  the  village  in  which  Mr.  Grabman  met  his  new 


332  LUCRETiA. 

coadjutor;-  and  there,  though  her  conduct  was  less  flagrant  and 
her  expenses  less  reckless,  she  made  but  a  very  unfavorable  im- 
pression, which  was  confirmed  by  her  flight  with  an  itinerant 
hawker  of  the  lowest  possible  character.  Seated  over  their 
port  wine,  the  two  gentlemen  compared  their  experiences,  and 
consulted  on  the  best  mode  of  re-mending  the  broken  thread 
of  their  research;  when  Mr.  Grabman  said  coolly:  "But,  after 
all,  I  think  it  most  likely  that  we  are  not  on  the  right  scent. 
This  bantling  may  not  be  the  one  we  search  for." 

"Be  not  misled  by  that  doubt.  To  arrive  at  the  evidence 
we  desire,  we  must  still  track  this  wretched  woman." 

"You  are  certain  of  that?" 

"Certain." 

"Hem!     Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  Mr.  Walter  Ardworth?" 

"Yes;  what  of  him?" 

"Why,  he  can  best  tell  us  where  to  look  for  the  child." 

"I  am  sure  he  would  counsel  as  I  do." 

"You  know  him,  then?" 

"I  do." 

"What!     He  lives  still?" 

"I  hope  so." 

"Can  you  bring  me  across  him?" 

"If  necessary." 

"And  that  young  man,  who  goes  by  his  name,  brought  up 
by  Mr.  Fielden? — " 

"Well,  sir?" 

"Is  he  not  the  son  of  Mr.  Braddell?" 

The  stranger  was  silent,  and,  shading  his  face  with  his  hand, 
seemed  buried  in  thought.  He  then  rose,  took  up  his  candle, 
and  said  quietly: 

"Sir,  I  wish  you  good-evening.  I  have  letters  to  write  in 
my  own  room.  I  will  consider  by  to-morrow,  if  you  stay  till 
then,  whether  we  can  really  aid  each  other  farther,  or  whether 
we  should  pursue  our  researches  separately."  With  these 
words,  he  closed  he  door;  and  Mr.  Grabman  remained  baffled 
and  bewildered. 

However,  he  too  had  a  letter  to  write;  so,  calling  for  pen, 
ink,  and  paper,  and  a  pint  of  brandy,  he  indited  his  com- 
plaints and  his  news  to  Varney: 

"Jason  (he  began)  are  you  playing  me  false?  Have  you  set 
another  man  on  the  track  with  a  view  to  bilk  me  of  my  prom- 
ised fee?  Explain,  or  I  throw  up  the  business." 

Herewith  Mr.  Grabman  gave  a  minute  description  of  the 
Stranger,  and  related  pretty  accurately  what  had  passed  between 


LUCRtTIA.  333 

that  gentleman  and  himself.  He  then  added  the  progress  of 
his  own  inquiries,  and  renewed,  as  peremptorily  as  he  dared, 
his  demand  for  candor  and  plain  dealing.  Now  it  so  hap- 
pened that,  in  stumbling  upstairs  to  bed,  Mr.  Grabman  passed 
the  room  in  which  his  mysterious  fellow-seeker  was  lodged,  and, 
as  is  the  usage  in  hostels,  a  pair  of  boots  stood  outside  the  door, 
to  be  cleaned  betimes  in  the  morning.  Though  somewhat 
drunk,  Grabman  still  preserved  the  rays  of  his  habitual  astute- 
ness. A  clever,  and  a  natural,  idea  shot  across  his  brain, 
illuminating  the  fumes  of  the  brandy;  he  stooped,  and  while 
one  hand  on  the  wall  steadied  his  footing,  with  the  other  he 
fished  up  a  boot,  and  peering  within,  saw  legibly  written : 
"John  Ardworth,  Esq.,  Gray's  Inn."  At  that  sight  he  felt 
what  a  philosopher  feels  at  the  sudden  elucidation  of  a  trouble- 
some problem.  Downstairs  again  tottered  Grabman,  re- 
opened his  letter,  and  wrote:  "P.  S. — I  have  wronged  you, 
Jason,  by  my  suspicions;  never  mind — Jubilate  !  This  inter- 
loper, who  made  me  so  jealous — who,  think  you,  it  is?  Why, 
young  Ardworth  himself;  that  is,  the  lad  who  goes  by  such 
name.  Now,  is  it  not  clear?  Of  course,  no  one  else  has  such 
interest  in  learning  his  birth  as  the  lost  child  himself — Here  he 
is!  If  old  Ardworth  lives  (as  he  says),  old  Ardworth  has  set 
him  to  work  on  his  own  business.  But  then,  that  Fielden — 
rather  a  puzzler  that!  Yet,  no;  now  I  understand:  old  Ard- 
worth gave  the  boy  to  Mrs.  Joplin,  and  took  it  away  from 
her  again  when  he  went  to  the  parson's.  Now,  certainly,  it 
may  be  quite  necessary  to  prove — first,  that  the  boy  he  took 
from  Mr.  Braddell'she  gave  to  Mrs.  Joplin;  secondly,  that  the 
boy  he  left  with  Mr.  Fielden  was  the  same  that  he  took  again 
from  that  woman;  therefore,  the  necessity  of  finding  out 
Mother  Joplin,  an  essential  witness:  Q.  E.  D.,  Master  Jason!" 
It  was  not  till  the  sun  had  been  some  hours  risen  that  Mr. 
Grabman  imitated  that  luminary's  example.  When  he  did  so, 
he  found,  somewhat  to  his  chagrin,  that  John  Ardworth  had 
long  been  gone.  In  fact,  whatever  the  motive  that  had  led  the 
latter  on  the  search,  he  had  succeeded  in  gleaning  from  Grab- 
man all  that  that  person  could  communicate,  and  their  inter- 
view had  inspired  him  with  such  disgust  of  the  attorney,  and 
so  small  an  opinion  of  the  value  of  his  co-operation  (in  which 
last  belief,  perhaps,  he  was  mistaken)  that  he  had  resolved  to 
continue  his  inquiries  alone,  and  had  already,  in  his  early 
morning's  walk  through  the  village,  ascertained  that  the  man 
with  whom  Mrs.  Joplin  had  quitted  the  place  had  some  time 
after  been  sentenced  to  six  months  imprisonment  in  the  county 


334  LtlCRETiA. 

gaol.  Possibly  the  prison  authorities  might  know  something 
to  lead  to  his  discovery;  and  through  him  the  news  of  his  par- 
amour might  be  gained. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

MORE   OF   MRS.    JOPLIN. 

ONE  day  at  the  hour  of  noon  the  court  boasting  the  tall  resi- 
dence of  Mr.  Grabman  was  startled  from  the  quiet  usually 
reigning  there  at  broad  daylight,  by  the  appearance  of  two  men, 
evidently  no  inhabitants  of  the  place.  The  squalid,  ill-favored 
denizens  lounging  before  the  doors  stared  hard;  and,  at  the 
fuller  view  of  one  of  the  men,  most  of  them  retreated  hastily 
within.  Then,  in  those  houses,  you  might  have  heard  a  mur- 
mur of  consternation  and  alarm.  The  ferret  was  in  the  bur- 
row— a  Bow  Street  officer  in  the  court !  The  two  men  paused, 
looked  round,  and,  stopping  before  the  dingy  tower-like  house, 
selected  the  bell  which  appealed  to  the  inmates  of  the  ground- 
floor,  to  the  left.  At  that  summons  Bill  the  cracksman  impru- 
dently presented  a  full  view  of  his  countenance  through  his 
barred  window;  he  drew  it  back  with  astonishing  celerity;  but 
not  in  time  to  escape  the  eye  of  the  Bosv  Street  runner. 

"Open  the  door,  Bill;  there's  nothing  to  fear;  I  have  no 
summons  against  you,  'pon  honor.  You  know  I  never  de- 
ceive. Why  should  I?  Open  the  door,  I  say!" 

No  answer. 

The  officer  tapped  with  his  cane  at  the  foul  window. 

"Bill,  there's  a  gentleman  who  comes  to  you  for  informa- 
tion, and  he  will  pay  for  it  handsomely." 

Bill  again  appeared  at  the  casement,  and  peeped  forth,  very 
cautiously,  thorough  the  bars. 

"Bless  my  vitals,  Mr.  R !  and  it  is  you,  is  it?  What 

were  you  saying  about  'paying  handsomely'?  " 

"That  your  evidence  is  wanted — not  against  a  pal,  man.  I 
will  hurt  no  one,  and  put  at  least  five  guineas  in  your  pocket." 

"Ten  guineas!"  said  the  Bow  Street  officer's  companion. 

"You  be' s  a  man  of  'onor,  Mr.  R !"  said  Bill  emphat- 
ically; "and  I  scorns  to  doubt  you — so  here  goes." 

With  that,  he  withdrew  from  the  window,  and  in  another 
minute  or  so  the  door  was  opened,  and  Bill,  with  a  superb  bow, 
asked  his  visitors  into  his  room. 

In  the  interval,  leisure  had  been  given  to  the  cracksman  to 
remove  all  trace  of  the  wonted  educational  employment  of  his 


LUCRETIA.  335 

hopeful  children.  The  urchins  were  seated  on  the  floor,  play- 
ing at  push-pin;  and  the  Bow  Street  officer  benignly  patted  a 
pair  of  curly  heads  as  he  passed  them,  drew  a  chair  to  the 
table,  and,  wiping  his  forehead,  sat  down,  quite  at  home.  Bill 
then  deliberately  seated  himself,  and,  unbuttoning  his  waist- 
coat, permitted  the  butt-ends  of  a  brace  of  pistols  to  be  seen 

by  his  guests.     Mr.  R 's  companion  seemed  very  unmoved 

by  this  significant  action.  He  bent  one  inquiring,  steady  look 
on  the  cracksman,  which,  as  Bill  afterwards  said,  went  through 
him  "like  a  gimblet  through  a  panny, "  and,  taking  out  a 
purse,  through  the  network  of  which  the  sovereigns  gleamed 
pleasantly,  placed  it  onrthe  table,  and  said: 

"This  purse  is  yours,  if  you  will  tell  me  what  has  become  of 

a  woman  named  Joplin,  with  whom  you  left  the  village  of , 

in  Lancashire,  in  the  year  18 — ." 

"And,"  put  in  Mr.  R ,  "the  gentleman  wants  to  know, 

with  no  view  of  harming  the  woman.  It  will  be  to  her  own  ad- 
vantage to  inform  us  where  she  is." 

"  'Pon  honor,  again?"  said  Bill. 
"Pon  honor!" 

"Well,  then,  I  has  a  heart  in  my  buzzom,  and  if  so  be  I  can 
do  a  good  turn  to  the  'oman  wot  I  has  loved,  and  kep  com- 
pany with,  why  not?" 

"Why  not,  indeed?"  said  Mr.  R .     "And  as  we  want  to 

learn,  not  only  what  has  become  of  Mrs.  Joplin,  but  what  she 
did  with  the  child  she  carried  off  from ,  begin  at  the  be- 
ginning, and  tell  us  all  you  know." 

Bill  mused. 

"How  much  is  there  in  the  pus?" 

"Eighteen  sovereigns." 

"Make  it  twenty — you  nod;  twenty  then?  A  bargain! 
Now,  I'll  go  right  on  ahead.  You  sees  as  how,  some  months 

arter  we — that  is,  Peggy  Joplin   and  self — left ,  I  was  put 

in  quod  in  Lancashire  gaol,  so  I  lost  sight  of  the  blowen. 
When  I  got  out,  and  came  to  Lunnun — it  was  a  matter  of  seven 
year,  afore,  all  of  a  sudding,  I  came  bang  up  agin  her — at  the 
corner  of  Common  Garden.  'Why,  Bill!'  says  she.  'Why 
Peggy!'  says  I,  and  we  bussed  each  other  like  winky.  'Shall 
us  come  together  agin?'  says  she.  'Why,  no,'  says  I;  'I  has 
a  wife  wots  a  good  'un,  and  gets  her  bread  by  setting  up  as  a 
widder  with  seven  small  children !  By-the-by,  Peg,  what's  a 
come  of  your  brat?' — for  as  you  says,  sir,  Peg  had  a  child  put 
out  to  her  to  nurse.  Lor!  how  she  cuffed  it!  'The  brat!' 
says  she,  laughing  like  mad.  'Oh,  I  got  rid  o'  that,  when  you 


LUCREflA. 

were  in  gaol,  Bill.'  'As  how?'  says  I.  'Why,  there  was  a 
woman  begging  agin  St.  Poll's  churchyard,  so  I  purtended  to 
see  a  frind  at  a  distance:  "  'old  the  babby  a  moment,"  says  I, 
puffing  and  panting,  "while  I  ketches  my  friend  yonder.".  So 
she  'olds  the  brat,  and  I  never  sees  it  agin;  and  there's  an  ind 
of  the  bother!'  'But  wont  they  ever  ax  for  the  child — them 
as  giv'  it  you!?'  'Oh  no,'  says  Peg,  'they  left  it  too  long  for 
that,  and  all  the  tin  was  a-gone;  and  one  mouth  is  hard  enough 
to  feed  in  these  days! — let  by, other  folks'  bantlings. '  'Well,' 
says  I,  'where  do  you  hang  out?  I'll  pop  in,  in  a  friendly 
way.'  So  she  tells  me — som'are  in  Lambeth  (I  forgets  hex- 
actly),  and  many's  the  good  piece  of  work  we  hi'  done 
togither." 

"And  where  is  she  now?"  asked  Mr.  R 's  companion. 

"I  doesn't  know  purcisely,  but  I  can  com'  at  her:  you  see, 
when  my  poor  wife  died,  four  years  com'  Chris'mas,  and  left 
me  with  as  fine  a  famuly,  tho'  I  says  it,  as  hold  King  Georgy 
himself  walked  afore,  with  his  gold-'eaded  cane,  on  the  terris 
at  Vindsor — all  heights  and  all  hages,  to  the  babby  in  arms  (for 
the  littel  un  there  warn't  above  a  year  old,  and  had  been 
a-brought  up  upon  spoon-meat,  with  a  dash  o'  blue  ruin  to 
make  him  slim  and  ginteel);  as  for  the  bigger  uns  wot  you 
don't  see.  they  be  doin'  well  in  forin  parts,  Mr.  R !" 

Mr.  R smiled  significantly. 

Bill  resumed.  "Where  was  I?  Oh,  when  my  wife  died,  I 
wanted  sum  un  to  take  care  of  the  childern,  so  I  takes  Peg  into 
the 'ous.  But  Lor!  how  she  larrupped 'em:  she  has  a  cruel 

heart,   hasn't   she,    Bob?      Bob  is  a  cute  child,   Mr.   R . 

Just  as  I  was  a-thinking  of  turning  her  out  neck  an'  crop,  a 
gemmen  what  lodges  aloft,  wot  be  a  laryer,  and  wot  had  just 

saved  my  nick,  Mr.  R ,  by  proving  a  halibi,  said,  'That's  a 

tidy  body,  your  Peg!'  (for  you  see  he  was  often  a-wisiting 
here,  an'  hindeed,  sin'  then,  he  has  taken  our  third  floor,  No. 
9).  'I've  bin  a-speakin'  to  her,  and  I  find  she  has  been  anus 
to  the  sick.  I  has  a  frind  wots  a  huncle  that's  ill,  can  you 
spare  her,  Bill,  to  attind  him?'  'That  I  can,'  says  I,  'any- 
thing to  obleedge. '  So  Peg  packs  off,  bag  and  baggidge." 

"And  what  was  the  sick  gentleman's  name?"  asked  Mr. 
R.'s  companion. 

"It  was  one  Mr.  Warney — a  painter,  wot  lived  at  Clap'am. 
Since  thin  I've  lost  sight  of  Peg;  for  we  had  'igh  words  about 
the  childern,  and  she's  a  spiteful  'oman.     But  you   can  larn    . 
where  she  be  at  Mr.  Warney's,  if  so  be  he's  still  above-ground." 

"And  did  this  woman  still  go  by  the  name  of  Joplin?" 


LUCRETIA.  337 

Bill  grinned:  "She  warn't  such  a  spooney  as  that;  that 

name  was  in  your  black  books  too  much,  Mr.  R ,  for  a 

'spectable  nuss  for  sick  bodies;  no,  she  was  then  called  Martha 
Skeggs,  what  was  her  own  mother's  name  afore  marridge. 
Anything  more,  gemmen?" 

"I  am  satisfied,"  said  the  younger  visitor,  rising;  "there  is 

the  purse,  and  Mr.  R will  bring  you  ten  sovereigns  in 

addition.  Good-day  to  you." 

Bill,  with  superabundant  bows  and  flourishes  showed  his 
visitors  out,  and  then,  in  high  glee,  he  began  to  romp  with 
his  children;  and  the  whole  family  circle  was  in  a  state  of  up- 
roarious enjoyment  when  the  door  flew  open,  and  in  entered 
Grabman,  his  brief-bag  in  hand,  dust-soiled,  and  unshaven. 

"Aha,  neighbor!  Your  servant — your  servant.  Just  come 
back!  Always  so  merry — for  the  life  of  me,  I  couldn't  help 
looking  in!  Dear  me,  Bill,  why,  you're  in  luck!"  and  Mr. 
Grabman  pointed  to  a  pile  of  sovereigns  which  Bill  had  emptied 
fiom  the  purse  to  count  over,  and  weigh  on  the  tip  of  his  fore- 
finger. 

"Yes,"  said  Bill,  sweeping  the  gold  into  his  corduroy  pock- 
et; "and  who  do  you  think  brought  me  these  shiners?  Why, 
who  but  old  Peggy,  the  'oman  wot  you  put  out  at  Clap'am." 

"Well,  never  mind  Peggy,  now,  Bill;  I  want  to  ask  you 
what  you  have  done  with  Margaret  Joplin,  whom,  sly  seducer 
that  you  are,  you  carried  off  from — " 

"Why,  man,  Peggy  be  Joplin,  and  Joplin  be  Peggy!  And 
it's  for  that  piece  of  noos  that  I  got  all  them  pretty  new  picters 
of  his  majesty,  Bill — my  namesake,  God  bliss  "im!" 

"D — n,"  exclaimed  Grabman,  aghast,  "the  young  chap's 
spoiling  my  game  again!"  And  seizing  up  his  brief-bag,  he 
darted  out  of  the  house,  in  the  hope  to  arrive,  at  least,  at 
Clapham  before  his  competitors. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 
BECK'S  DISCOVERY. 

UNDER  the  cedar  trees,  at  Laughton,  sate  that  accursed  and 
abhorrent  being,  who  sate  there  young,  impassioned,  hopeful, 
as  Lucretia  Clavering — under  the  old  cedar  trees,  which,  save 
that  their  vast  branches  cast  an  imperceptibly  broader  shade 
over  the  mossy  sward,  the  irrevocable  winters  had  left  the 
same.  Where,  through  the  nether  boughs,  the  autumn  sun- 
beams came  aslant,  the  windows,  enriched  by  many  a  haughty 


338  LUCRETIA. 

scutcheon,  shone  brightly  against  the  western  rays.  From  the 
flower-beds  in  the  quaint  garden  near  at  hand,  the  fresh  yet  tran- 
quil air  wafted  faint  perfumes  from  the  lingering  heliotrope  and 
fading  rose.  The  peacock  perched  dozingly  on  the  heavy  balus- 
trade; the  blithe  robin  hopped  busily  along  the  sun-track  on  the 
lawn;  in  the  distance  the  tinkling  bells  of  the  flock,  the  plaining 
low  of  some  wandering  heifer,  while,  breaking  the  silence, 
seemed  still  to  blend  with  the  repose.  All  images  around  lent 
themselves  to  complete  that  picture  of  stately  calm,  which  is  the 
character  of  those  old  mansion  houses,  which  owner  after 
owner  has  loved,  and  heeded,  leaving  to  them  the  graces  of 
antiquity,  guarding  them  from  the  desolation  of  decay. 

Alone  sate  Lucretia,  under  the  cedar  trees,  and  her  heart  made 
dismal  contrast  to  the  noble  tranquillity  that  breathed  around. 
From  whatever  softening  or  repentant  emotions  which  the  scene 
of  her  youth  might  first  have  awakened;  from  whatever  of  less 
unholy  anguish  which  memory  might  have  caused,  when  she 
first,  once  more,  sate  under  those  remembered  boughs,  and,  as 
a  voice  from  a  former  world,  some  faint  whisper  of  youthful 
love  sighed  across  the  waste  and  ashes  of  her  devastated  soul, — 
from  all  such  rekindled  humanities  in  the  past  she  had  now, 
with  gloomy  power,  wrenched  herself  away.  Crime  such  as 
hers  admits  not  long  the  sentiment  that  softens  the  remorse  of 
gentler  error.  If  there  wakes  one  moment  from  the  past  the 
warning  and  melancholy  ghost,  soon  from  that  abyss  rises  the 
Fury  with  the  lifted  scourge,  and  hunts  on  the  frantic  foot- 
steps towards  the  future.  In  the  future,  the  haggard  intellect 
of  crime  must  live ;  must  involve  itself  mechanically  in  webs 
and  meshes,  and  lose  past  and  present  in  the  welcome  atmos- 
phere of  darkness. 

Thus,  while  Lucretia  sate,  and  her  eyes  rested  upon  the  halls 
of  her  youth,  her  mind  overleapt  the  gulf  that  yet  yawned  be- 
tween her  and  the  object  on  which  she  was  bent.  Already,  in 
fancy,  that  home  was  hers  again ;  its  present  possessor  swept 
away,  the  interloping  race  of  Vernon,  ending  in  one  of  those 
abrupt  lines  familiar  to  genealogists,  which  branch  out  busily 
from  the  main  tree,  as  if  all  pith  and  sap  were  monopolized  by 
them,  continue  for  a  single  generation,  and  then  shrink  into  a 
printer's  bracket,  with  the  formal  laconism,  "Died  without 
issue."  Back,  then,  in  the  pedigree  would  turn  the  eye  of 
some  curious  descendant,  and  see  the  race  continue  in  the 
posterity  of  Lucretia  Clavering. 

With  all  her  ineffable  vices,  mere  cupidity  had  not,  as  we 
have  often  seen,  been  a  main  characteristic  of  this  fearful 


LUCRETIA.  339 

woman ;  and  in  her  design  to  endow,  by  the  most  determined 
guilt,  her  son  with  the  heritage, of  her  ancestors,  she  had 
hitherto  looked  but  little  to  mere  mercenary  advantages  for 
herself ;  but  now,  in  the  sight  of  that  venerable  and  broad  do- 
main, a  covetousness,  absolute  in  itself,  broke  forth.  Could 
she  have  gained  it  for  her  own  use,  rather  than  her  son's,  she 
would  have  felt  a  greater  zest  in  her  ruthless  purpose.  She 
looked  upon  the  scene  as  a  deposed  monarch  upon  his  usurped 
realm ;  it  was  her  right.  The  early  sense  of  possession  in  that 
inheritance  returned  to  her.  Reluctantly  would  she  even  yield 
her  claims  to  her  child.  Here,  too,  in  this  atmosphere  she 
tasted  once  more  what  had  long  been  lost  to  her,  the  luxury  of 
that  dignified  respect  which  surrounds  the  well-born.  Here, 
she  ceased  to  be  the  suspected  adventuress,  the  friendless  out- 
cast, the  needy  wrestler  with  hostile  fortune,  the  skulking 
enemy  of  the  law.  She  rose  at  once,  and  without  effort,  to  her 
original  state,  the  honored  daughter  of  an  illustrious  house. 
The  homeliest  welcome  that  greeted  her  from  some  aged  but  un- 
forgotten  villager,  the  salutation  of  homage,  the  bated  breath 
of  humble  reverence — even  trifles  like  these  were  dear  to 
her,  and  made  her  the  more  resolute  to  retain  them.  In  her 
calm,  relentless,  onward  vision,  she  saw  herself  enshrined  in 
those  halls,  ruling  in  the  delegated  authority  of  her  son,  safe 
evermore  from  prying  suspicion  and  degrading  need,  and 
miserable  guilt  for  miserable  objects.  Here,  but  one  great 
crime,  and  she  resumed  the  majesty  of  her  youth!  While  thus 
dwelling  on  the  future,  her  eye  did  not  even  turn  from  those 
sunlit  towers  to  the  forms  below,  and  more  immediately  invit- 
ing its  survey.  On  the  very  spot  where,  at  the  opening  of  this 
tale,  sate  Sir  Miles  St.  John,  sharing  his  attention  between  his 
dogs  and  his  guest,  sate  now  Helen  Mainwaring;  against  the 
balustrade,  where  had  lounged  Charles  Vernon,  leant  Percival 
St.  John ;  and  in  the  same  place  where  he  had  stationed  him- 
self that  eventful  evening  to  distort,  in  his  malignant  sketch, 
the  features  of  his  father,  Gabriel  Varney,  with  almost  the  same 
smile  of  irony  on  his  lips,  was  engaged  in  transferring  to  his 
canvas  a  more  faithful  likeness  of  the  heir's  intended  bride. 
Helen's  countenance,  indeed,  exhibited  comparatively  but  little 
of  the  ravages  which  the  pernicious  ailment,  administered  so 
noiselessly,  made  upon  the  frame.  The  girl's  eye,  it  is  true, 
had  sunk,  and  there  was  a  languid  heaviness  in  its  look ;  but 
the  contour  of  the  cheek  was  so  naturally  rounded,  and  the 
features  so  delicately  fine,  that  the  fall  of  the  muscles  was  less 
evident;  and  the  bright,  warm  hue  of  the  complexion,  and  the 


34°  LUCRETIA. 

pearly  sparkle  of  the  teeth,  still  gave  a  fallacious  freshnes?  to 
the  aspect.  But,  as  yet,  the  poisoners  had  forborne  those  in- 
gredients which  invade  the  springs  of  life,  resorting  only  to 
such  as  undermine  the  health,  and  prepare  the  way  to  unsus- 
pected graves.  Out  of  the  infernal  variety  of  the  materials  at 
their  command,  they  had  selected  a  mixture  which  works  by 
sustaining  perpetual  fever !  which  gives  little  pain,  little  suffer- 
ing, beyond  that  of  lassitude  and  thirst;  which  wastes  like  con- 
sumption, and  yet  puzzles  the  physician,  by  betraying  few  or 
none  of  its  ordinary  symptoms.  But  the  disorder,  as  yet,  was 
not  incurable;  its  progress  would  gradually  cease  with  the  dis- 
continuance of  the  venom. 

Although  October  was  far  advanced,  the  day  was  as  mild 
and  warm  as  August.  But  Percival,  who  had  been  watching 
Helen's  countenance,  with  the  anxiety  of  love  and  fear,  now 
proposed  that  the  sitting  should  be  adjourned.  The  sun  was 
declining,  and  it  was  certainly  no  longer  safe  for  Helen  to  be 
exposed  to  the  air  without  exercise.  He  proposed  that  they 
should  walk  through  the  garden,  and  Helen,  rising  cheerfully, 
placed  her  hand  on  his  arm.  But  she  had  scarcely  descended 
the  steps  of  the  terrace  when  she  stopped  short,  and  breathed 
hard  and  painfully.  The  spasm  was  soon  over,  and,  walking 
slowly  on,  they  passed  Lucretia  with  a  brief  word  or  two,  and 
were  soon  out  of  sight  amongst  the  cedars. 

"Lean  more  on  my  arm,  Helen,"  said  Percival.  "How 
strange  it  is,  that  the  change  of  air  has  done  so  little  for  you, 
and  our  country  doctor  still  less!  I  should  feel  miserable,  in- 
deed, if  Simmons,  whom  my  mother  always  considered  very 
clever,  did  not  assure  me  that  there  was  no  ground  for  alarm; 
that  these  symptoms  were  only  nervous.  Cheer  up,  Helen; 
sweet  love,  cheer  up!" 

Helen  raised  her  face,  and  strove  to  smile,  but  the  tears 
stood  in  her  eyes:  "It  would  be  hard  to  die  now,  Percival!" 
she  said  falteringly. 

"To  die — oh,  Helen!  No;  we  must  not  stay  here  longer — 
the  air  is  certainly  too  keen  for  you.  Perhaps  your  aunt  will 
go  to  Italy — why  not  all  go  there,  and  seek  my  mother?  And 
she  will  nurse  you,  Helen, — and — and — "  He  could  not  trust 
his  voice  farther. 

Helen  pressed  his  arm  tenderly:  "Forgive  me,  dear  Perci- 
val; it  is  but  at  moments  that  I  feel  so  despondent — now, 
again,  it  is  past.  Ah,  I  so  long  to  see  your  mother!  When 
will  you  hear  from  her?  Are  you  not  too  sanguine?  Do  you 
really  feel  sure  she  will  consent  to  so  lowly  a  choice?" 


LUCRETIA.  341 

"Never  doubt  her  affection — her  appreciation  of  you,"  an- 
swered Percival  gladly,  and  hoping  that  Helen's  natural  anxiety 
might  be  the  latent  cause  of  her  dejected  spirits:  "Often 
when  talking  of  the  future,  under  these  very  cedars,  my  mother 
has  said:  'You  have  no  cause  to  marry  for  ambition,  marry 
only  for  your  happiness.'  She  never  had  a  daughter — in  re- 
turn for  all  her  love,  I  shall  give  her  that  blessing." 

Thus  talking,  the  lovers  rambled  on  till  the  sun  set,  and 
then,  returning  to  the  house  they  found  that  Varney  and  Mad- 
ame Dalibard  had  preceded  them.  That  evening  Helen's 
spirits  rose  to  their  natural  buoyancy.  And  Percival's  heart 
was  once  more  set  at  ease  by  her  silvery  laugh. 

When,  at  their  usual  early  hour,  the  rest  of  the  family  retired 
to  sleep,  Percival  remained  in  the  drawing-room  to  write  again, 
and  at  length,  to  Lady  Mary  and  Captain  Greville.  While 
thus  engaged  his  valet  entered,  to  say,  that  Beck,  who  had  been 
out  since  the  early  morning,  in  search  of  a  horse  that  had  strayed 
from  one  of  the  pastures,  had  just  returned  with  the  animal, 
who  had  wandered  nearly  as  far  as  Southampton. 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Percival  abstractedly,  and  con- 
tinuing his  letter. 

The  valet  still  lingered;  Percival  looked  up  in  surprise. 

"If  you  please,  sir,  you  said  you  particularly  wished  to  see 
Beck  when  he  came  back." 

"I — oh,  true!  Tell  him  to  wait.  I  will  speak  to  him  by 
and  by;  you  need  not  sit  up  for  me;  let  Beck  attend  to  the  bell. " 

The  valet  withdrew.  Percival  continued  his  letter,  and 
filled  page  after  page,  and  sheet  after  sheet;  and  when  at 
length  the  letters,  not  containing  a  tithe  of  what  he  wished  to 
convey,  were  brought  to  a  close,  he  fell  into  a  revery  that 
lasted  till  the  candles  burnt  low,  and  the  clock  from  the  turret 
tolled  one.  Starting  up  in  surprise  at  the  lapse  of  time,  Perci- 
val then,  for  the  first  time  remembered  Beck,  and  rung  the  bell. 

The  ci-devant  sweeper,  in  his  smart  livery,  appeared  at  the 
door. 

"Beck,  my  poor  fellow,  I  am  ashamed  to  have  kept  you  wait- 
ing so  long;  but  I  received  a  letter  this  morning  which  relates 
to  you.  Let  me  see,  I  left  it  in  my  study  upstairs.  Ah,  you 
will  never  find  the  way — follow  me;  I  have  some  questions  to 
put  to  you." 

"Nothin  agin  my  carakter,  I  hopes,  your  'onor,"  said  Beck 
timidly. 

"Oh,  no!" 

"Noos  of  the  mattriss,  then?"  exclaimed  Beck  joyfully. 


342  LUCREflA. 

"Nor  that  either,"  answered  Percival,  laughing,  as  he  lighted 
the  chamber  candlestick,  and  followed  by  Beck,  ascended  the 
grand  staircase  to  a  small  room  which,  as  it  adjoined  his  sleep- 
ing apartment,  he  had  habitually  used  as  his  morning  writing- 
room  and  study. 

Percival  had,  indeed,  received  that  day  a  letter  which  had 
occasioned  him  much  surprise;  it  was  from  John  Ardworth, 
and  ran  thus: 

"Mv  DEAR  PERCIVAL: 

"It  seems  that  you  have  taken  into  your  service  a  young  man 
known  only  by  the  name  of  Beck.  Is  he  now  with  you  at 
Laugh  ton?  If  so,  pray  retain  him,  and  suffer  him  to  be  in 
readiness  to  come  to  me  at  a  day's  notice  if  wanted,  though  it 
is  probable  enough  that  I  may  come  to  you.  At  present, 
strange  as  it  may  seem  to  you,  I  am  detained  in  London  by 
business  connected  with  that  important  personage.  Will  you 
ask  him  carelessly,  as  it  were,  in  the  mean  while,  the  following 
questions : 

"First:  How  did  he  become  possessed  of  a  certain  child's 
coral,  which  he  left  at  the  house  of  one  Becky  Carruthers,  in 
Cole's  Buildings? 

"Secondly:  Is  he  aware  of  any  mark  on  his  arm — if  so, 
will  he  describe  it? 

"Thirdly:  How  long  has  he  known  the  said  Becky  Carru- 
thers? 

"Fourthly:     Does  he  believe  her  to  be  honest,  and  truthful? 

"Take  a  memorandum  of  his  answers,  and  send  it  to  me.  I 
am  pretty  well  aware  of  what  they  are  likely  to  be ;  but  I  desire 
you  to  put  the  questions  that  I  may  judge  if  there  be  any  dis- 
crepancy between  his  statement  and  that  of  Mrs.  Carruthers. 
I  have  much  to  tell  you,  and  am  eager  to  receive  your  kind 
congratulations  upon  an  event  that  has  given  me  more  happi- 
ness than  the  fugitive  success  of  my  little  book.  Tenderest 
regards  to  Helen;  and,  hoping  soon  to  see  you,  ever  affection- 
ately yours. 

"P.  S. — Say  not  a  word  of  the  contents  of  this  letter  to  Ma- 
dame Dalibard,  Helen,  or  to  any  one  except  Beck.  Caution 
him  to  the  same  discretion.  If  you  can't  trust  to  his  silence, 
send  him  to  town." 

When  the  post  brought  this  letter,  Beck  was  already  gone  on 
his  errand,  and  after  puzzling  himself  with  vague  conjectures, 
Percival's  mind  had  been  naturally  too  absorbed  with  his 
anxieties  for  Helen  to  recur  much  to  the  subject. 


LUCRETIA.  343  . 

Now,  refreshing  his  memory  with  the  contents  of  the  letter, 
he  drew  pen  and  ink  before  him,  put  the  questions  seriatim, 
noted  down  the  answers  as  desired,  and  smiling  at  Beck's 
frightened  curiosity  to  know  who  could  possibly  care  about 
such  matters,  and  feeling  confident  (from  that  very  fright)  of 
his  discretion,  dismissed  the  groom  to  his  repose. 

Beck  had  never  been  in  that  part  of  the  house  before ;  and 
when  he  got  into  the  corridor,  he  became  bewildered,  and  knew 
not  which  turn  to  take,  the  right  or  the  left.  He  had  no  candle 
with  him;  but  the  moon  came  clear  through  a  high  and  wide 
skylight;  the  light,  however,  gave  him  no  guide.  While  paus- 
ing, much  perplexed,  and  not  sure  that  he  should  even  know 
again  the  door  of  the  room  he  had  just  quitted,  if  venturing  to 
apply  to  his  young  master  for  a  clue  through  such  a  labyrinth, 
he  was  inexpressibly  startled  and  appalled  by  a  sudden  ap- 
parition. A  door  at  one  end  of  the  corridor  opened  noiseless- 
ly, and  a  figure,  at  first  scarcely  distinguishable,  for  it  was  robed 
from  head  to  foot  in  a  black,  shapeless  garb,  scarcely  giving  even 
the  outline  of  the  human  form,  stole  forth.  Beck  rubbed  his 
eyes,  and  crept,  mechanically,  close  within  the  recess  of  one 
of  the  doors  that  communicated  with  the  passage.  The  figure 
advanced  a  few  steps  towards  him ;  and  what  words  can  de- 
scribe his  astonishment,  when  he  beheld  thus  erect,  and  in  full 
possession  of  physical  power  and  motion,  the  palsied  cripple 
whose  chair  he  had  often  seen  wheeled  into  the  garden,  and 
whose  unhappy  state  was  the  common  topic  of  comment  in  the 
servants'  hall.  Yes,  the  moon  from  above  shone  full  upon  that 
face  which  never,  once  seen,  could  be  forgotten.  And  it 
seemed  more  than  mortally  stern  and  pale,  contrasted  with  the 
sable  of  the  strange  garb,  and  beheld  by  that  mournful  light. 
Had  a  ghost,  indeed,  risen  from  the  dead,  it  could  scarcely 
have  appalled  Tiim  more.  Madame  Dalibard  did  not  see  the 
involuntary  spy ;  for  the  recess  in  which  he  had  crept  was  on 
that  side  of  the  wall  on  which  the  moon's  shadow  was  cast. 
With  a  quick  step,  she  turned  into  another  room,  opposite 
that  which  she  had  quitted,  the  door  of  wh'ich  stood  ajar,  and 
vanished  noiselessly  as  she  had  appeared. 

Taught  suspicion  by  his  earlier  acquaintance  with  the  "night- 
side"  of  human  nature,  Beck  had  good  cause  for  it  here;  this 
detection  of  an  imposture  most  familiar  to  his  experience — 
that  of  a  pretended  cripple — the  hour  of  the  night,  the  evil  ex- 
pression on  the  face  of  the  deceitful  guest,  Madame  Dalibard's 
familiar  intimacy  and  near  connection  with  Varney — Varney 
the  visitor  to  Grabman,  who  received  no  visitors  but  those  who 


344  LUCREtlA. 

desire  not  to  go  to  law,  but  to  escape  from  its  penalties — Var- 
ney,  who  had  dared  to  brave  the  Resurrection  Man  in  his  den, 
and  who  seemed  so  fearlessly  at  home  in  abodes  where  nought 
but  poverty  could  protect  the  honest, — Varney  now,  with  that 
strange  woman,  an  inmate  of  a  house  in  which  the  master  was 
so  young,  so  inexperienced,  so  liable  to  be  duped  by  his  own 
generous  nature — all  these  ideas  vaguely  combined  inspired 
Beck  with  as  vague  a  terror;  surely  something,  he  knew  not 
what,  was  about  to  be  perpetrated  against  his  benefactor ;  some 
scheme  of  villany  which  it  was  his  duty  to  detect.  He  breathed 
hard,  formed  his  resolves,  and,  stealing  on  tiptoe,  followed  the 
shadowy  form  of  the  poisoner  through  the  half-opened  door- 
way. The  shutters  of  the  room  of  which  he  thus  crossed  the 
threshold  were  not  closed — the  moon  shone  in,  bright  and  still. 
He  kept  his  body  behind  the  door,  peeping  in,  with  straining, 
fearful  stare.  He  saw  Madame  Dalibard  standing  beside  a 
bed,  round  which  the  curtains  were  closed — standing  for  a  mo- 
ment or  so  motionless,  and  as  if  in  the  act  of  listening,  with 
one  hand  on  a  table  beside  the  bed.  He  then  saw  her  take 
from  the  folds  of  her  dress  something  white  and  glittering,  and 
pour  from  it,  what  appeared  to  him  but  a  drop  or  two — cau- 
tiously, slowly — into  a  phial  on  the  table,  from  which  she  with- 
drew the  stopper ;  that  done,  she  left  the  phial  where  she  had 
found  it,  again  paused  a  moment,  and  turned  towards  the  door. 
Beck  retreated  hastily  to  his  former  hiding-place,  and  gained  it 
in  time.  Again  the  shadowy  form  passed  him,  and  again  the 
white  face  in  the  white  moonlight  froze  his  blood  with  its  fell 
and  horrible  expression.  He  remained  cowering  and  shrinking 
against  the  wall  for  some  time,  striving  to  collect  his  wits,  and 
considering  what  he  should  do.  His  first  thought  was  to  go  at 
once  and  inform  St.  John  of  what  he  had  witnessed.  But  the 
poor  have  a  proverbial  dread  of  deposing  aught  against  a  su- 
perior. Madame  Dalibard  would  deny  his  tale;  the  guest 
would  be  believed  against  the  menial;  he  should  be  but  dismissed 
with  ignominy.  At  that  idea,  he  left  his  hiding-place,  and  crept 
along  the  corridor,  -in  the  hope  of  finding  some  passage  at  the 
end  which  might  lead  to  the  offices.  But  when  he  arrived  at 
the  other  extremity,  he  was  only  met  by  great  folding  doors, 
which  evidently  communicated  with  the  state  apartments.  He 
must  retrace  his  steps — he  did  so ;  and  when  he  came  to  the 
door  which  Madame  Dalibard  had  entered,  and  which  still 
stood  ajar,  he  had  recovered  some  courage,  and  with  cour- 
age, curiosity  seized  him.  For  what  purpose  could  the 
strange  woman  seek  that  room  at  night  thus  feloniously; 


LUCRETIA.  345 

what  could  she  have  poured  and  with  such  stealthy  caution 
into  the  phial?  Naturally  and  suddenly  the  idea  of  poison 
flashed  across  him.  Tales  of  such  crime  (as  indeed  of  all  crime) 
had  necessarily  often  thrilled  the  ear  of  the  vagrant  fellow- 
lodger  with  burglars  and  outlaws.  But  poison  to  whom. 
Could  it  be  meant  for  his  benefactor?  Could  St.  John  sleep  in 
that  room?  Why  not?  The  woman  had  sought  the  chamber 
before  her  young  host  had  retired  to  rest,  and  mingled  her 
potion  with  some  medicinal  draught.  All  fear  vanished  before 
the  notion  of  danger  to  his  employer.  He  stole  at  once  through 
the  doorway,  and  noiselessly  approached  the  table  on  which 
yet  lay  the  phial.  His  hand  closed  on  it  firmly.  He  resolved 
to  carry  it  away,  and  consider  next  morning  what  next  to  do. 
At  all  events,  it  might  contain  some  proof  to  back  his  tale  and 
justify  his  suspicions.  When  he  came  once  more  into  the  cor- 
ridor,  he  made  a  quick  rush  onwards,  and  luckily  arrived  at  the 
staircase.  There,  the  blood-red  stains  reflected  on  the  stone- 
floors  from  the  blazoned  casements  daunted  him  little  less  than 
the  sight  at  which  his  hair  still  bristled.  He  scarcely  drew 
breath  till  he  had  got  into  his  own  little  crib,  in  the  wing  set 
apart  for  the  stablemen,  when,  at  length,  he  fell  into  broken 
and  agitated  sleep,  the  visions  of  all  that  had  successively  dis- 
turbed him  waking,  united  confusedly,  as  in  one  picture  of 
gloom  and  terror.  He  thought  that  he  was  in  his  old  loft  in 
St.  Giles ;  that  the  Gravestealer  was  wrestling  with  Varney  for 
his  body,  while  he  himself,  lying  powerless  on  his  pallet,  fancied 
he  should  be  safe  so  long  as  he  could  retain  as  a  talisman,  his 
child's  coral,  which  he  clasped  to  his  heart.  Suddenly,  in  that 
black,  shapeless  garb  in  which  he  had  beheld  her,  Madame 
Dalibard  bent  over  him,  with  her  stern,  colorless  face,  and 
wrenched  from  him  his  charm.  Then  ceasing  his  struggle  with 
his  horrible  antagonist,  Varney  laughed  aloud,  and  the  Grave- 
stealer seized  him  in  his  deadly  arms. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE    TAPESTRY    CHAMBER. 

WHEN  Beck  woke  the  next  morning,  and  gradually  recalled 
all  that  had  so  startled  and  appalled  him  the  previous  night, 
the  grateful  creature  felt  less  by  the  process  of  reason  than  by 
a  brute  instinct,  that  in  the  mysterious  resuscitation  and  noc- 
turnal wanderings  of  the  pretended  paralytic,  some  danger 
menaced  his  master;  he  became  anxious  to  learn  whether  it 


346  LUCRETIA. 

was  really  St.  John's  room  Madame  Dalibard  stealthily  vis- 
ited. A  bright  idea  struck  him,  and  in  the  course  of  the  day, 
at  an  hour  when  the  family  were  out  of  doors,  he  contrived  to 
coax  the  good-natured  valet,  who  had  taken  him  under  his 
special  protection,  to  show  him  over  the  house.  He  had  heard 
the  other  servants  say  there  was  such  a  power  of  fine  things, 
that  a  peep  into  the  rooms  was  as  good  as  a  show,  and  the  valet 
felt  pride  in  being  cicerone  even  to  Beck.  After  having  stared 
sufficiently  at  the  banquet-hall  and  the  drawing-room,  the 
armor,  the  busts,  and  the  pictures,  and  listened,  open-mouthed, 
to  his  guide's  critical  observations,  Beck  was  led  up  the  great 
stairs  into  the  old  family  picture-gallery,  and  into  Sir  Miles's 
ancient  room  at  the  end,  which  had  been  left  undisturbed,  with 
the  bed  still  in  the  angle;  on  returning  thence,  Beck  found 
himself  in  the  corridor  which  communicated  with  the  prin- 
cipal bedrooms,  in  which  he  had  lost  himself  the  night 
before. 

"And  vot  room  be  that  vith  the  littul  vite  'ead  hover  the 
door?"  asked  Beck,  pointing  to  the  chamber  from  which 
Madame  Dalibard  had  emerged. 

"That  white  head,  Master  Beck,  is  Floorer  the  goddess;  but 
a  heathen  like  you  knows  nothing  about  goddesses.  Floorer 
has  a  half-moon  in  her  hair,  you  see,  which  shows  that  the 
idolatrous  Turks  worship  her,  for  the  Turkish  flag  is  a  half 
moon,  as  I  have  seen  at  Constantinople !  I  have  travelled, 
Beck." 

"And  vot  room  be  it?  Is  it  the  master's?"  persisted 
Beck. 

"No,  the  pretty  young  lady,  Miss  Mainwaring,  has  it  at  pres- 
ent. There  is  nothing  to  see  in  it.  But  that  one,  opposite, 
and  the  valet  advanced  to  the  door  through  which  Madame 
Dalibard  had  disappeared:  "that  is  curious;  and  as  Madame 
is  out,  we  may  just  take  a  peep."  He  opened  the  door  gently, 
and  Beck  looked  in.  "This,  which  is  called  the  turret-cham- 
ber, was  Madame's  when  she  was  a  girl,  I  have  heard  Old 
Bessy  say;  so  master  pops  her  there  now.  For  my  part,  I'd 
rather  sleep  in  your  little  crib,  than  have  those  great,  gruff- 
looking  figures  staring  at  me  by  the  firelight,  and  shaking  their 
heads  with  every  wind  on  a  winter's  night."  And  the  valet 
took  a  pinch  of  snuff,  as  he  drew  Beck's  attention  to  the  faded 
tapestry  on  the  walls.  As  they  spoke,  the  draught  between  the 
door  and  the  window  caused  the  gloomy  arras  to  wave  with  a 
lifelike  motion;  and  to  those  more  superstitious  than  romantic, 
the  chamber  had  certainly  no  inviting  aspect, 


LUCRETIA.  347 

"I  never  sees  these  old  tapestry  rooms,  said  the  valet, 
"without  thinking  of  the  story  of  the  lady  who  coming  from 
a  ball  and  taking  off  her  jewels,  happened  to  look  up,  and  saw 
an  eye  in  one  of  the  figures  which  she  felt  sure  was  no  peeper 
in  worsted." 

"Vot  vos  it,  thin?"  asked  Beck  timidly,  lifting  up  the  hang- 
ings, and  noticing  that  there  was  a  considerable  space  between 
them  and  the  wall,  which  was  filled  up  in  part  by  closets  and 
wardrobes  set  into  the  wall,  with  intervals  more  than  deep 
enough  for  the  hiding-place  of  a  man. 

"Why,"  answered  the  valet,  "it  was  a  thief.  He  had  come 
for  the  jewels;  but  the  lady  had  the  presence  of  mind  to  say 
aloud,  as  if  to  herself,  that  she  had  forgotten  something, 
slipped  out  of  the  room,  locked  the  door,  called  up  the  ser- 
vants, and  the  thief,  who  was  no  less  a  person  than  the  under- 
butler,  was  nabbed." 

"And  the  French  'oman  sleeps  'ere?"  said  Beck  mus- 
ingly. 

"French  'oman!  Master  Beck,  nothing's  so  vulgar  as  these 
nicknames,  in  a  first-rate  sitivation.  It  is  all  very  well  when 
one  lives  with  skinflints;  but  with  such  a  master  as  our'n, 
respect's  the  go.  Besides,  Madame  is  not  a  French  'oman; 
she  is  one  of  the  family — and  as  old  a  family  it  is,  too, 
as  e'er  a  lord's  in  the  three  kingdoms.  But  come,  your 
curiosity  is  satisfied  now,  and  you  must  trot  back  to  your 
horses." 

As  Beck  returned  to  the  stables,  his  mind  yet  more  misgave 
him  as  to  the  criminal  designs  of  his  master's  visitor.  It  was 
from  Helen's  room  that  the  false  cripple  had  walked,  and  the 
ill-health  of  the  poor  young  lady  was  a  general  subject  of  com- 
passionate comment.  But  Madame  Dalibard  was  Helen's  rela- 
tion ;  from  what  motive  could  she  harbor  an  evil  thought  against 
her  own  niece?  But  still,  if  those  drops  were  poured  into  the 
healing  draught  for  good — why  so  secretly?  Once  more  he 
resolved  the  idea  of  speaking  to  St.  John ;  an  accident  dis- 
suaded him  from  this  intention ;  the  only  proof  to  back  his 
tale  was  the  mysterious  phial  he  had  carried  away;  but  unluck- 
ily, forgetting  that  it  was  in  his  pocket,  at  a  time  when  he  flung 
off  his  coat  to  groom  one  of  the  horses,  the  bottle  struck 
against  the  corn-bin  and  broke — all  the  contents  were  spilt. 
This  incident  made  him  suspend  his  intention,  and  wait  till  he 
could  obtain  some  fresh  evidence  of  evil  intentions.  The  day 
passed  without  any  other  noticeable  occurrence.  The  doctor 
called,  found  Helen  somewhat  better,  and  ascribed  it  to  his 


348  LUCRETIA. 

medicines,  especially  to  the  effect  of  his  tonic  draught  the 
first  thing  in  the  morning.  Helen  smiled:  "Nay,  doc- 
tor," said  she,  "this  morning,  at  least,  it  was  forgotten.  I 
did  not  find  it  by  my  bedside.  Don't  tell  my  aunt,  she 
would  be  so  angry."  The  doctor  looked  rather  discom- 
posed. 

"Well,"  said  he,  soon  recovering  his  good-humor,  "since 
you  are  certainly  better  to-day  without  the  draught,  discon- 
tinue it  also  to-morrow.  I  will  make  an  alteration  for  the  day 
after."  So  that  night  Madame  Dalibard  visited  in  vain  her 
niece's  chamber — Helen  had  a  reprieve. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

THE    SHADES   ON    THE    DIAL. 

THE  following  morning  was  indeed  eventful  to  the  family  at 
Laughton ;  and,  as  if  conscious  of  what  it  brought  forth,  it 
rose  dreary  and  sunless;  one  heavy  mist  covered  all  the  land- 
scape, and  a  raw,  drizzling  rain  fell  pattering  through  the  yel- 
low leaves. 

Madame  Dalibard,  pleading  her  infirmities,  rarely  left  her 
room  before  noon,  and  Varney  professed  himself  very  irregular 
in  his  hours  of  rising;  the  breakfast,  therefore,  afforded  no 
social  assembly  to  the  family,  but  each  took  that  meal  in  the 
solitude  of  his  or  her  own  chamber.  Percival,  in  whom  all  hab- 
its partook  of  the  healthfulness  and  simplicity  of  his  character, 
rose  habitually  early;  and  that  day,  in  spite  of  the  weather, 
walked  forth  betimes  to  meet  the  person  charged  with  the  let- 
ters from  the  post.  He  had  done  so  for  the  last  three  or  four 
days,  impatient  to  hear  from  his  mother,  and  calculating  that  it 
was  full  time  to  receive  the  expected  answer  to  his  confession 
and  his  prayer.  He  met  the  messenger  at  the  bottom  of  the 
park,  not  far  from  Guy's  Oak.  This  day  he  was  not  disap- 
pointed. The  letter-bag  contained  three  letters  for  himself, 
two  with  the  foreign  post-mark,  the  third  in  Ardworth's  hand. 
It  contained  also  a  letter  for  Madame  Dalibard,  and  two  for 
Varney. 

Leaving  the  messenger  to  take  these  last  to  the  hall,  Percival, 
with  his  own  prize,  plunged  into  the  hollow  of  the  glen  before 
him,  and,  seating  himself  at  the  foot  of  Guy's  Oak,  through 
the  vast  branches  of  which  the  rain  scarcely  came,  and  only  in 


LUCRETIA.  3J9 

single,  mournful  drops,  he  opened  first  the  letter  in  his  moth- 
er's hand,  and  read  as  follows: 

"My    DEAR,   DEAR    SON: 

"How  can  I  express  to  you  the  alarm  your  letter  has  given 
me !  So  these,  then,  are  the  new  relations  you  have  discov- 
ered !  I  fondly  imagined  that  you  were  alluding  to  some  of  my 
own  family,  and  conjecturing  who  amongst  my  many  cousins 
should  have  so  captivated  your  attention.  These  the  new 
relations !  Lucretia  Dalibard — Helen  Mainwaring !  Percival, 
do  *  you  not  know — No,  you  cannot  know — that  Helen 
Mainwaring  is  the  daughter  of  a  disgraced  man ;  of  one  who 
(more  than  suspected  of  fraud  in  the  bank  in  which  he  was 
a  partner)  left  his  country,  condemned  even  by  his  own  father. 

If  you  doubt  this,  you  have  but  to  inquire  at ,  not   ten 

miles  from  Laughton,  where  the  elder  Mainwaring  resided.  Ask 
there,  what  became  of  William  Mainwaring.  And  Lucretia, — 
you  do  not  know  that  the  dying  prayer  of  her  uncle,  Sir  Miles 
St.  John,  was  that  she  might  never  enter  the  house  he  bequeathed 
to  your  father.  Not  till  after  my  poor  Charles's  death  did  I 
know  the  exact  cause  for  Sir  Miles' s  displeasure,  though  con- 
fident it  was  just ;  but  then  amongst  his  papers  I  found  the  un- 
grateful letter  which  betrayed  thoughts  so  dark,  and  passions 
so  unwomanly,  that  I  blushed  for  my  sex  to  read  it.  Could  it 
be  possible  that  that  poor  old  man's  prayers  were  unheeded ; 
that  that  treacherous  step  could  ever  cross  your  threshold;  that 
that  cruel  eye  which  read  with  such  barbarous  joy  the  ravages 
of  death  on  a  benefactor's  face,  could  rest  on  the  hearth,  by 
which  your  frank,  truthful  countenance  has  so  often  smiled 
away  my  tears,  I  should  feel  indeed,  as  if  a  thunder-cloud 
hung  over  the  roof.  No!  If  you  marry  the  niece,  the  aunt 
must  be  banished  from  your  house.  Good  Heavens!  and  it  is 
the  daughter  of  William  Mainwaring,  the  niece  and  ward  of 
Lucretia  Dalibard,  to  whom  you  have  given  your  faithful  affec- 
tion; whom  you  single  from  the  world  as  your  wife!  Oh! 
my  son,  my  beloved,  my  sole  surviving  child,  do  not  think  that 
I  blame  you ;  that  my  heart  does  not  bleed  while  I  write  thus; 
but  I  implore  you  on  my  knees  to  pause  at  least ;  to  suspend 
this  intercourse,  till  I  myself  can  reach  England.  And  what 
then?  Why,  then,  Percival,  I  promise,  on  my  part,  that  I  will 
see  your  Helen  with  unprejudiced  eyes;  that  I  will  put  away 
from  me,  as  far  as  possible,  all  visions  of  disappointed  pride — 
the  remembrance  of  faults  not  her  own ;  and  if  she  be  as  you 
say  and  think,  I  will  take  her  to  my  heart  and  call  her  'Paugh- 


350  LUCRETIA. 

ter.'  Are  you  satisfied?  If  so,  come  to  me — come  at  once, 
and  take  comfort  from  your  mother's  lips.  How  I  long  to  be 
with  you  while  you  read  this !  How  I  tremble  at  the  pain  I 
so  rudely  give  you  !  But  my  poor  sister  still  chains  me  here  ; 
I  dare  not  leave  her,  lest  I  should  lose  her  last  sigh.  Come 
then,  come,  we  will  console  each  other. 

"Your  fond  (how  fond!)  and  sorrowing  mother, 
"October  3,  1831.  "MARY  ST.  JOHN. 

"Sorrento. 

"P.  S.  You  see  by  this  address  that  we  have  left  Pisa  for 
this  place,  commended  by  our  physician;  hence  an  unhappy 
delay  of  some  days  in  my  reply.  Ah  Percival,  how  sleepless 
will  be  my  pillow  till  I  hear  from  you ! " 

Long,  very  long,  was  it  before  St.  John,  mute  and  over- 
whelmed with  the  sudden  shock  of  his  anguish,  opened  his 
other  letters — the  first  was  from  Captain  Greville: 

"What  trap  have  you  fallen  into,  foolish  boy?  That  you 
would  get  into  some  silly  scrape  or  another  was  natural  enough. 
But  a  scrape  for  life,  sir — that  is  serious !  But,  God  bless  you 
for  your  candor,  my  Percival;  you  have  written  to  us  in  time; 
you  are  old-fashioned  enough  to  think  that  a  mother's  consent 
is  necessary  to  a  young  man's  union.  And  you  have  left  it  in 
our  power  to  save  you  yet ;  it  is  not  every  boyish  fancy  that 
proves  to  be  true  love.  But  enough  of  this  preaching ;  I  shall 
do  better  than  write  scolding  letters,  I  shall  come  and  scold 
you  in  person.  My  servant  is  at  this  very  moment  packing 
my  portmanteau,  the  laquais-de-place  is  gone  to  Naples  for  my 
passport.  Almost  as  soon  as  you  receive  this  I  shall  be  with 
you;  and  if  I  am  a  day  or  two  later  than  the  mail,  be  patient; 
do  not  commit  yourself  further.  Break  your  heart  if  you 
please,  but  don't  implicate  your  honor.  I  shall  come  at  once 
to  Curzon  Street.  Adieu!  "H.  GREVILLE." 

Ardworth's  letter  was  shorter  than  the  others ;  fortunately 
so,  for  otherwise  it  had  been  unread : 

"If  I  do  not  come  to  you  myself  the  day  after  you  receive 
this,  dear  Percival,  which,  indeed  is  most  probable,  I  shall 
send  you  my  proxy  in  one  whom,  for  my  sake,  I  know  that  you 
will  kindly  welcome.  He  will  undertake  my  task,  and  clear 
up  all  the  mysteries  with  which,  I  trust,  my  correspondence  has 
thoroughly  bewildered  your  lively  imagination. 
"Yours,  ever, 

"Gray's  Inn,"  "JOHN  ARDWORTH." 


LUCRETIA.  351 

Little,  indeed,  did  Percival's  imagination  busy  itself  with 
the  mysteries  of  Ardworth's  correspondence.  His  mind 
scarcely  took  in  the  sense  of  the  words,  over  which  his  eye 
mechanically  wandered. 

And  the  letter  which  narrated  the  visit  of  Madame  Dalibard 
to  the  house  thus  solemnly  interdicted  to  her  step,  was  on  its 
way  to  his  mother;  nay,  by  this  time  would  almost  have 
reached  her.  Greville  was  on  the  road;  nay,  as  his  tutor's 
letter  had  been  forwarded  from  London,  might,  perhaps,  be  in 
Curzon  Street  that  day.  How  desirable  to  see  him  before  he 
could  reach  Laughton,  to  prepare  him  for  Madame  Dalibard's 
visit;  for  Helen's  illness;  explain  the  position  in  which  he  was 
involved,  and  conciliate  the  old  soldier's  rough,  kind  heart  to 
his  love  and  his  distress ! 

He  did  not  dread  the  meeting  with  Greville ;  he  yearned  for 
it.  He  needed  an  adviser,  a  confidant,  a  friend.  To  dismiss 
abruptly  his  guests  from  his  house, — impossible !  To  abandon 
Helen  because  of  her  father's  crime,  or  her  aunt's  fault  (what- 
ever that  last  might  be,  and  no  clear  detail  of  it  was  given)  that 
never  entered  his  thoughts!  Pure  and  unsullied,  the  starry 
face  of  Helen  shone  the  holier  from  the  cloud  around  it.  An 
inexpressible  and  chivalrous  compassion  mingled  with  his  love 
and  confirmed  his  faith.  She,  poor  child,  to  suffer  for  the 
deeds  of  others !  No.  What  availed  his  power  as  man,  and 
dignity  as  gentleman,  if  they  could  not  wrap  in  their  own  shelter 
the  one  by  whom  such  shelter  was  now  doubly  needed?  Thus, 
amidst  all  his  emotions,  firm  and  resolved,  at  least  on  one  point, 
and  beginning  already  to  recover  the  hope  of  his  sanguine  nature, 
from  his  reliance  on  his  mother's  love,  on  the  promises  that 
softened  her  disclosures  and  warnings,  and  on  his  conviction 
that  Helen  had  only  to  be  seen  for  every  scruple  to  give  way, 
Percival  wandered  back  towards  the  house,  and,  coming 
abruptly  on  the  terrace,  he  encountered  Varney,  who  was  lean- 
ing motionless  against  the  balustrades,  with  an  open  letter  in 
his  hand.  Varney  was  deadly  pale,  and  there  was  the  trace  of 
some  recent  and  gloomy  agitation  in  the  relaxed  muscles  of  his 
cheeks,  usually  so  firmly  rounded.  But  Percival  did  not  heed 
his  appearance  as  he  took  him  gravely  by  the  arm,  and  leading 
him  into  the  garden,  said,  after  a  painful  pause: 

"Varney,  I  am  about  to  ask  you  two  questions,  which  your 
close  connection  with  Madame  Dalibard  may  enable  you  to 
answer;  but  in  which  from  obvious  motives,  I  must  demand 
the  strictest  confidence.  You  will  not  hint  to  her  or  to  Helen 
what  I  am  about  to  say?" 


352  LUCRETIA. 

Varney  stared  uneasily  on  Percival's  serious  countenance, 
and  gave  the  promise  required. 

"First,  then,  for  what  offence  was  Madame  Dalibard  ex- 
pelled her  uncle's  house — this  house  of  Laughton? 

"Secondly,  what  is  the  crime  with  which  Mr.  Mainwaring, 
Helen's  father,  is  charged?" 

"With  regard  to  the  first,"  said  Varney,  recovering  his  com- 
posure, "I  thought  I  had  already  told  you  that  Sir  Miles  was  a 
proud  man,  and  that,  in  consequence  of  discovering  a  girlish 
flirtation  between  his  niece  Lucretia  (now  Madame  Dalibard) 
and  Mainwaring,  who  afterwards  jilted  her  for  Helen's  mother, 
he  altered  his  will — 'expelled  her  his  house,'  is  too  harsh  a 
a  phrase.  This  is  all  I  know.  With  regard  to  the  second 
question,  no  crime  was  ever  brought  home  to  William  Main- 
waring.  He  was  suspected  of  dealing  improperly  with  the 
funds  of  the  bank,  and  he  repaid  the  alleged  deficit  by  the 
sacrifice  of  all  he  possessed." 

"This  is  the  truth!"  exclaimed  Percival  joyfully. 

"The  plain  truth,  I  believe;  but  why  these  questions  at  this 
moment?  Ah,  you  too,  I  see,  have  had  letters — I  understand! 
Lady  Mary  gives  these  reasons  for  withholding  her  consent." 

"Her  consent  is  not  withheld,"  answered  Percival;  "but, 
shall  I  own  it? — remember,  I  have  your  promise  not  to  wound 
and  offend  Madame  Dalibard  by  the  disclosure :  my  mother 
does  refer  to  the  subjects  I  have  alluded  to,  and  Captain  Gre- 
ville,  my  old  friend  and  tutor,  is  on  his  way  to  England — per- 
haps to-morrow  he  may  arrive  at  Laughton." 

"Ha!"  said  Varney,  startled ;  "to-morrow!  And  what  sort 
of  a  man  is  this  Captain  Greville?" 

"The  best  man  possible  for  such  a  case  as  mine:  kind- 
hearted,  yet  cool,  sagacious,  the  finest  observer,  the  quickest 
judge  of  character — nothing  escapes  him.  Oh,  one  interview 
will  suffice  to  show  him  all  Helen's  innocent  and  matchless 
excellence!" 

"To-morrow!     This  man  comes  to-morrow!" 

"All  that  I  fear  is — for  he  is  rather  rough  and  blunt  in  his 
manner, — all  that  I  fear  is,  his  first  surprise,  and,  dare  I  say, 
displeasure,  at  seeing  this  poor  Madame  Dalibard,  whose 
faults,  I  fear,  were  graver  than  you  suppose,  at  the  house  from 
which  her  uncle — to  whom,  indeed,  I  owe  this  inheritance — 

"I  see — I  see!"  interrupted  Varney  quickly.  "And 
Madame  Dalibard  is  the  most  susceptible  of  women:  so  well- 
born, and  so  poor,  so  gifted,  and  so  helpless — it  is  natural. 
Can  you  not  write,  and  put  off  this  Captain  Greville  for  a  few 


LUCRETIA.  353 

days?     Until,  indeed,  I  can  find  some  excuse  for  terminating 
our  visit." 

"But  my  letter  may  be  hardly  in  time  to  reach  him;  he  may 
be  in  town  to-day." 

"Go  then  to  town  at  once;  you  can  be  back  late  at  night,  or 
at  least  to-morrow.  Anything  better  than  wounding  the  pride 
of  a  woman  on  whom,  after  all,  you  must  depend  for  free  and 
open  intercourse  with  Helen." 

"That  is  exactly  what  I  thought  of;  but  what  excuse? — ' 

"Excuse!  A  thousand!  Every  man  coming  of  age  into 
such  a  property  has  business  with  his  lawyers ;  or  why  not  say 
simply  that  you  want  to  meet  a  friend  of  yours,  who  has  just 
left  your  mother  in  Italy?  In  short,  any  excuse  suffices,  and 
none  can  be  offensive." 

"I  will  order  my  carriage  instantly." 

"Right!"  exclaimed  Varney;  and  his  eye  followed  there- 
ceding  form  of  Percival  with  a  mixture  of  fierce  exultation  and 
anxious  fear.  Then  turning  towards  the  window  of  the  turret- 
chamber,  in  which  Madame  Dalibard  reposed,  and  seeing  it 
still  closed,  he  muttered  an  impatient  oath ;  but  even  while  he 
did  so,  the  shutters  were  slowly  opened,  and  a  footman,  step- 
ping from  the  porch,  approached  Varney  with  a  message,  that 
Madame  Dalibard  would  see  him  in  five  minutes,  if  he  would 
then  have  the  goodness  to  ascend  to  her  room. 

Before  that  time  was  well  expired,  Varney  was  in  the  cham- 
ber. Madame  Dalibard  was  up,  and  in  her  chair:  and  the 
unwonted  joy  which  her  countenance  evinced  was  in  strong 
contrast  with  the  sombre  shade  upon  her  son-in-law's  brow, 
and  the  nervous  quiver  of  his  lip. 

"Gabriel,"  she  said,  as  he  drew  near  to  her,  "my  son  is 
found!" 

"I  know  it,"  he  answered  petulantly. 

"You!     From  whom?" 

"From  Grabman." 

"And  I  from  a  still  better  authority — from  Walter  Ard worth 
himself!  He  lives;  he  will  restore  my  child!"  She  extended 
a  letter  while  she  spoke.  He,  in  return,  gave  her,  not  that  still 
crumpled  in  his  hand,  but  one  which  he  drew  from  his  breast. 
These  letters  severally  occupied  both,  begun  and  finished 
almost  in  the  same  moment. 

That  from  Grabman  ran  thus: 
"DEAR  JASON: 

"Toss  up  your  hat,  and  cry  hip-hip!  At  last,  from  person 
to  person,  I  have  tracked  the  lost  Vincent  Braddell.  He  lives 


354  LucRETiA. 

still!  We  can  maintain  his  identity  in  any  court  of  law. 
Scarce  in  time  for  the  post,  I  have  not  a  moment  for  further 
particulars.  I  shall  employ  the  next  two  days  in  reducing  all 
the  evidence  to  a  regular  digest,  which  I  will  despatch  to  you. 
Meanwhile,  prepare,  as  soon  as  may  be,  to  put  me  in  possession 
of  my  fee, — £5000,  and  my  expedition  merits  something  more. 
Yours,  NICHOLAS  GRABMAN." 

The  letter  from  Ard worth  was  no  less  positive: 

"MADAM: 

"In  obedience  to  the  command  of  a  dying  friend,  I  took 
charge  of  his  infant,  and  concealed  its  existence  from  his 
mother — yourself.  On  returning  to  England,  I  need  not  say 
that  I  was  not  unmindful  of  my  trust.  Your  son  lives;  and, 
after  mature  reflection,  I  have  resolved  to  restore  him  to  your 
arms.  In  this  I  have  been  decided  by  what  I  have  heard  from 
one  whom  I  can  trust,  of  your  altered  habits,  your  decorous  life, 
your  melancholy  infirmities,  and  the  generous  protection  you 
have  given  to  the  orphan  of  my  poor  cousin  Susan,  my  old 
friend  Mainwaring.  Alfred  Braddell  himself,  if  it  be  permitted 
to  him  to  look  down  and  read  my  motives,  will  pardon  me,  I 
venture  to  feel  assured,  this  departure  from  his  injunctions. 
Whatever  the  faults  which  displeased  him,  they  have  been 
amply  chastened.  And  your  son,  grown  to  man,  can  no  longer 
be  endangered  by  example,  in  tending  the  couch,  or  soothing 
the  repentance,  of  his  mother. 

"These  words  are  severe;  but  you  will  pardon  them  in  him 
who  gives  you  back  your  child.  I  shall  venture  to  wait  on  you 
in  person,  with  such  proofs  as  may  satisfy  you  as  to  the  iden- 
tity of  your  son.  I  count  on  arriving  at  Laughton  to-morrow. 
Meanwhile,  I  simply  sign  myself  by  a  name,  in  which  you  will 
recognize  the  kinsman  to  one  branch  of  your  family,  and  the 
friend  of  your  dead  husband,  J.  WALTER  ARDWORTH. 

"Craven  Hotel,  October,  1831." 

"Well!  and  you  are  not  rejoiced!"  said  Lucretia,  gazing 
surprised  on  Varney's  sullen  and  unsympathizing  face. 

"No;  because  time  presses;  because,  even  while  discover- 
ing your  son,  you  may  fail  in  securing  his  heritage;  because, 
in  the  midst  of  your  triumph,  I  see  Newgate  opening  to  my- 
self !  Look  you,  I,  too,  have  had  my  news — less  pleasing  than 
yours.  This  Stubmore  (curse  him!)  writes  me  word  that  he 
shall  certainly  be  in  town  next  month  at  farthest,  and  that  he 
meditates,  immediately  on  his  arrival,  transferring  the  legacy 
from  the  Bank  of  England  to  an  excellent  mortgage  of  which 


LUCRETIA.  355 

he  has  heard.  Were  it  not  for  this  scheme  of  ours,  nothing 
would  be  left  for  me  but  flight  and  exile." 

"A  month!  That  is  a  long  time!  Do  you  think  now  that 
my  son  is  found,  and  that  son  one  like  John  Ardworth  (for 
there  can  be  no  doubt  that  my  surmise  was  right),  with  genius 
to  make  station  the  pedestal  to  the  power  I  dreamed  of  in  my 
youth,  but  which  my  sex  forbade  me  to  attain — do  you  think  I 
will  keep  him  a  month  from  his  inheritance?  Before  the 
month  is  out,  you  shall  replace  what  you  have  taken,  and  buy 
your  trustee's  silence,  if  need  be,  either  from  the  sums  you 
have  insured,  or  from  the  rents  of  Laughton." 

"Lucretia,"  said  Varney,  whose  fresh  color  had  grown  livid, 
"what  is  to  be  done  must  be  done  at  once!  Percival  St.  John 
has  heard  from  his  mother.  Attend!"  And  Varney  rapidly 
related  the  questions  St.  John  had  put  to  him,  the  dreaded 
arrival  of  Captain  Greville,  the  danger  of  so  keen  an  observer, 
the  necessity,  at  all  events,  of  abridging  their  visit,  the  urgen- 
cy of  hastening  the  catastrophe  to  its  close. 

Lucretia  listened  in  ominous  and  steadfast  silence. 

"But,"  she  said,  at  last,  "you  have  persuaded  St.  John  to 
give  this  man  the  meeting  in  London — to  put  off  his  visit  for 
the  time.  St.  John  will  return  to  us  to-morrow.  Well;  and  if 
he  finds  his  Helen  is  no  more!  Two  nights  ago  I,  for  the  first 
time,  mingled  in  the  morning  draught  that  which  has  no  anti- 
dote and  no  cure.  This  night  two  drops  more,  and  St.  John 
will  return  to  find  that  Death  is  in  the  house  before  him.  And 
then  for  himself — the  sole  remaining  barrier  between  my  son 
and  this  inheritance,  for  himself — why  grief  sometimes  kills 
suddenly;  and  there  be  drugs  whose  effect  simulates  the 
death-stroke  of  grief." 

"Yet,  yet,  this  rapidity,  if  necessary,  is  perilous.  Nothing 
in  Helen's  state  forbodes  sudden  death  by  natural  means. 
The  strangeness  of  two  deaths,  both  so  young — Greville  in 
England,  if  not  here — hastening  down  to  examine,  to  inquire, 
with  such  prepossessions  against  you:  there  must  be  an 
inquest!" 

"Well,  and  what  can  be  discovered?  It  was  I  who  shrunk 
before;  it  is  I  who  now  urge  despatch.  I  feel  as  in  my  proper 
home  in  these  halls.  1  would  not  leave  them  again  but  to  my 
grave!  I  stand  on  the  hearth  of  my  youth.  I  fight  for  my 
rights  and  my  son's.  Perish  those  who  oppose  me!" 

A  fell  energy  and  power  were  in  the  aspect  of  the  murderess 
as  she  thus  spoke;  and  while  her  determination  awed  the  infe- 
rior villany  of  Varney,  it  served  somewhat  to  mitigate  his  fears. 


356  LUCRETIA. 

As  in  more  detail  they  began  to  arrange  their  execrable  plans, 
Percival,  while  the  horses  were  being  harnessed  to  take  him  to 
the  nearest  post-town,  sought  Helen,  and  found  her  in  the  little 
chamber  which  he  had  described  and  appropriated  as  her  own, 
when  his  fond  fancy  had  sketched  the  fair  outline  of  the  future. 

This  room  had  been  originally  fitted  up  for  the  private  devo- 
tions of  the  Roman  Catholic  wife  of  an  ancestor,  in  the  reign 
of  Charles  II.;  and  in  a  recess,  half  veiled  by  a  curtain,  there 
still  stood  that  holy  symbol,  which,  whether  Protestant  or 
Roman  Catholic,  no  one  sincerely  penetrated  with  the  solemn 
pathos  of  sacred  history  can  behold  unmoved — the  Cross  of 
the  Divine  Agony.  Before  this  holy  symbol  Helen  stood  in 
earnest  reverence.  She  did  not  kneel  (for  the  forms  of  the 
religion  in  which  she  had  been  reared  were  opposed  to  that 
posture  of  worship  before  the  graven  image),  but  you  could  see 
in  that  countenance,  eloquent  at  once  with  the  enthusiasm  and 
the  meekness  of  piety,  that  the  soul  was  filled  with  the  memor- 
ies and  the  hopes,  which,  age  after  age,  have  consoled  the 
sufferer,  and  inspired  the  martyr.  The  soul  knelt  to  the  idea, 
if  the  knee  bowed  not  to  the  image,  embracing  the  tender 
grandeur  of  the  sacrifice,  and  the  vast  inheritance  opened  to 
faith  in  the  redemption. 

The  young  man  held  his  breath  while  he  gazed.  He  was 
moved,  and  he  was  awed.  Slowly  Helen  turned  towards  him, 
and,  smiling  sweetly,  held  out  to  him  her  hand.  They  seated 
themselves  in  silence  in  the  depth  of  the  overhanging  case- 
ment; and  the  mournful  character  of  the  scene  without,  where, 
dimly  through  the  misty  rains,  gloomed  the  dark  foliage  of  the 
cedars,  made  them  insensibly  draw  closer  to  each  other,  in  the 
instinct  of  love  when  the  world  frowns  around  it.  Percival 
wanted  the  courage  to  say  that  he  had  come  to  take  farewell, 
though  but  for  a  day,  and  Helen  spoke  first. 

"I  cannot  guess  why  it  is,  Percival,  but  I  am  startled  at  the 
change  I  feel  in  myself — no,  not  in  health,  dear  Percival,  I 
mean  in  mind;  during  the  last  few  months — since,  indeed,  we 
have  known  each  other.  I  remember  so  well  the  morning  in 
which  my  aunt's  letter  arrived  at  the  dear  vicarage.  We  were 
returning  from  the  village  fair,  and  my  good  guardian  was 
smiling  at  my  notions  of  the  world.  I  was  then  so  giddy,  and 
light,  and  thoughtless — everything  presented  itself  to  me  in 
such  gay  colors, — I  scarcely  believed  in  sorrow.  And  now  I 
feel  as  if  I  were  awakened  to  a  truer  sense  of  nature,  of  the 
ends  of  our  being  here;  I  seem  to  know  that  life  is  a  grave  and 
solemn  thing.  Yet  I  am  not  less  happy,  Percival.  No,  I 


LUCRETIA.  357 

think,  rather,  that  I  knew  not  true  happiness  till  I  knew  you. 
I  have  read  somewhere  that  the  slave  is  gay  in  his  holiday  from 
toil;  if  you  free  him,  if  you  educate  him,  the  gayety  vanishes, 
and  he  cares  no  more  for  the  dance  under  the  palm-tree.  But 
is  he  less  happy?  So  it  is  with  me!" 

"My  sweet  Helen,  I  would  rather  have  one  gay  smile  of  old — • 
the  arch,  careless  laugh  which  came  so  naturally  from  those 
rosy  lips,  than  hear  you  talk  of  happiness  with  that  quiver  in 
your  voice,  those  tears  in  your  eyes." 

"Yet  gayety,"  said  Helen  thoughtfully,  and  in  the  strain  of 
her  pure,  truthful  poetry  of  soul,  "is  only  the  light  impression 
of  the  present  moment,  the  play  of  the  mere  spirits ;  and  hap- 
piness seems  a  forethought  of  the  future,  spreading  on,  far  and 
broad,  over  all  time  and  space." 

"And  you  live,  then,  in  the  future,  at  last;  you  have  no 
misgivings  now,  my  Helen?  Well,  that  comforts  me!  Say  it, 
Helen, — say  the  future  will  be  ours!" 

"It  will — it  will — forever  and  forever,"  said  Helen  ear- 
nestly, and  her  eyes  involuntarily  rested  on  the  Cross. 

In  his  younger  spirit  and  less  imaginative  nature,  Percival 
did  not  comprehend  the  depth  of  sadness  implied  in  Helen's 
answer;  taking  it  literally,  he  felt  as  if  a  load  were  lifted  from 
his  heart,  and  kissing  with  rapture  the  hand  he  held,  he  ex- 
claimed: "Yes,  this  shall  soon — oh,  soon  be  mine!  I  fear 
nothing  while  you  hope.  You  cannot  guess  how  those  words 
have  cheered  me,  for  I  am  leaving  you,  though  but  for  a  few 
hours,  and  I  shall  repeat  those  words — they  will  ring  in  my 
ear,  in  my  heart,  till  we  meet  again." 

"Leaving  me!"  said  Helen,  turning  pale,  and  her  clasp  on 
his  hand  tightened.  Poor  child,  she  felt,  mysteriously,  a  sen- 
timent of  protection  in  his  presence. 

"But  at  most  for  a  day.  My  old  tutor,  of  whom  we  have  so 
often  conversed,  is  on  his  way  to  England;  perhaps,  even  now 
in  London.  He  has  some  wrong  impressions  against  your 
aunt — his  manner  is  blunt  and  rough.  It  is  necessary  that  I 
should  see  him  before  he  comes  hither;  you  know  how  suscep- 
tible is  your  aunt's  pride;  just  to  prepare  him  for  meeting 
her, — you  understand?" 

"What  impressions  against  my  aunt?  Does  he  even  know 
her?"  asked  Helen;  and  if  such  a  sentiment  as  suspicion 
could  cross  that  candid  innocence  of  mind,  that  sentiment 
towards  this  stern  relation  whose  arms  had  never  embraced  her, 
whose  lips  had  never  spoken  of  the  past,  whose  history  was  as 
a  sealed  volume,  disturbed  and  disquieted  her. 


358  LUCRETIA. 

"It  is  because  he  has  never  known  her  that  he  does  her 
wrong.  Some  old  story  of  her  indiscretion  as  a  girl — of  her 
uncle's  displeasure — what  matters  now?' '  said  Percival,  shrink- 
ing sensitively  from  one  disclosure  that  might  wound  Helen  in 
her  kinswoman.  "Meanwhile,  dearest,  you  will  be  prudent; 
yeu  will  avoid  this  damp  air,  and  keep  quietly  at  home,  and 
amuse  yourself,  sweet  fancier  of  the  future,  in  planning  how  to 
improve  these  old  halls,  when  they  and  their  unworthy  master 
are  your  own.  God  bless  you!  God  guard  you,  Helen!" 

He  rose,  and  with  that  loyal  chivalry  of  love  which  felt  re- 
spect the  more  for  the  careless  guardianship  to  which  his  Helen 
was  entrusted,  he  refrained  from  that  parting  kiss  which  their 
pure  courtship  warranted, — for  which  his  lip  yearned.  But  as 
he  lingered,  an  irresistible  impulse  moved  Helen's  heart. 
Mechanically  she  opened  her  arms,  and  her  head  sunk  on  his 
shoulder.  In  that  embrace,  they  remained  some  moments 
still,  and  an  angel  might  unreprovingly  have  heard  their  hearts 
beat  through  the  stillness. 

At  length,  Percival  tore  himself  from  those  arms  which  re- 
laxed their  imploring  hold  reluctantly;  she  heard  his  hurried 
step  descend  the  stairs,  and,  in  a  moment  more,  the  roll  of  the 
wheels  in  the  court  without;  a  dreary  sense  as  of  some  utter 
desertion,  some  everlasting  bereavement,  chilled  and  appalled 
her.  She  stood  motionless,  as  if  turned  to  stone,  on  the  floor: 
suddenly  the  touch  of  something  warm  on  her  hand,  a  plaining 
whine,  awoke  her  attention;  Percival's  favorite  dog  missed  his 
master,  and  had  slunk  for  refuge  to  her.  The  dread  senti- 
ment of  loneliness  vanished  in  that  humble  companionship; 
and,  seating  herself  on  the  ground,  she  took  the  dog  in  her 
arms,  and,  bending  over  it,  wept  in  silence. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

MURDER,   TOWARDS    HIS    DESIGN,    MOVES    LIKE    A    GHOST. 

THE  reader  will,  doubtless,  have  observed  the  consummate 
art  with  which  the  poisoner  had  hitherto  advanced  upon  her 
prey.  The  design  conceived  from  afar,  and  executed  with 
elaborate  stealth,  defied  every  chance  of  detection,  against 
which  the  ingenuity  of  practised  villany  could  guard.  Grant 
even  that  the  deadly  drugs  should  betray  the  nature  of  the 
death  they  inflicted,  that  by  some  unconjectured  secret  in  the 
science  of  chemistry,  the  presence  of  those  vegetable  com- 
pounds which  had  hitherto  baffled  every  known  and  positive 


LUCRETIA.  359 

test  in  the  posthumous  examination  of  the  most  experienced 
surgeons,  should  be  clearly  ascertained,  not  one  suspicion 
seemed  likely  to  fall  upon  the  ministrant  of  death.  The  medi- 
cines were  never  brought  to  Madame  Dalibard,  were  never 
given  by  her  hand;  nothing  ever  tasted  by  the  victim  could  be 
tracked  to  her  aunt.  The  helpless  condition  of  the  cripple, 
which  Lucretia  had  assumed,  forbade  all  notion  even  of  her 
power  of  movement.  Only  in  the  dead  of  night,  when,  as  she 
believed,  every  human  eye  that  could  watch  her  was  sealed  in 
sleep,  and  then  in  those  dark  habiliments,  which  (even,  as 
might  sometimes  happen,  if  the  victim  herself  were  awake,)  a 
chance  ray  of  light  struggling  through  chink  or  shutter  could 
scarcely  distinguish  from  the  general  gloom,  did  she  steal  to 
the  chamber,  and  infuse  the  colorless  and  tasteless  liquid  *  in 
the  morning  draught,  meant  to  bring  strength  and  healing. 
Grant  that  the  draught  was  untouched;  that  it  was  examined 
by  the  surgeon;  that  the  fell  admixture  could  be  detected;  sus- 
picion would  wander  anywhere  rather  than  to  that  crippled  and 
helpless  kinswoman,  who  could  not  rise  from  her  bed  without 
aid. 

But  now  this  patience  was  to  be  abandoned,  the  folds  of  the 
serpent  were  to  coil  in  one  fell  clasp  upon  its  prey. 

Fiend  as  Lucretia  had  become,  and  hardened  as  were  all  her 
resolves  by  the  discovery  of  her  son,  and  her  impatience  to 
endow  him  with  her  forfeited  inheritance,  she  yet  shrank  from 
the  face  of  Helen  that  day;  on  the  excuse  of  illness  she  kept 
her  room,  and  admitted  only  Varney,  who  stole  in  from  time 
to  time,  with  creeping  step  and  haggard  countenance,  to  sus- 
tain her  courage  or  his  own.  And  every  time  he  entered,  he 
found  Lucretia  sitting  with  Walter  Ardworth's  open  letter  in  her 
hand,  and  turning  with  a  preternatural  excitement,  that 
seemed  almost  like  aberration  of  mind,  from  the  grim  and  hor- 
rid topic  which  he  invited,  to  thoughts  of  wealth,  and  power, 
and  triumph,  and  exulting  prophecies  of  the  fame  her  son 
should  achieve.  He  looked  but  on  the  blackness  of  the  gulf, 
and  shuddered;  her  vision  overleapt  it,  and  smiled  on  the 
misty  palaces  her  fancy  built  beyond. 

Late  in  the  evening,  before  she  retired  to  rest,  Helen 
knocked  gently  at  her  aunt's  door;  a  voice  quick  and  startled 
bade  her  enter;  she  came  in,  with  her  sweet  caressing  look, 
and  took  Lucretia's  hand,  which  struggled  from  the  clasp. 
Bending  over  that  haggard  brow,  she  said,  simply,  yet  to  Lu- 
cretia's ear  the  voice  seemed  that  of  command:  "Let  me  kiss 

*  The  celebrated  aytia  tfi  Tu/ania  (Tufania  water)  was  wholly  without  taste  or  color. 


360  LUCRETIA. 

you,  this  night!"  and  her  lips  pressed  that  brow.  The  mur- 
deress shuddered,  and  closed  her  eyes;  when  she  opened  them, 
the  angel  visitor  was  gone. 

Night  deepened  and  deepened  into  those  hours  from  the 
first  of  which  we  number  the  morn,  though  night  still  is  at  hei 
full.  Moon-beam  and  star-beam  came  through  the  casements, 
shyly,  and  fairy-like,  as  on  that  night  when  the  murderess  was 
young  and  crimeless — in  deed,  if  not  in  thought — that  night 
when,  in  the  book  of  leechcraft,  she  meted  out  the  hours  in 
which  the  life  of  her  benefactor  might  still  interpose  between 
her  passion  and  its  end.  Along  the  stairs,  through  the  hall, 
marched  the  armies  of  light — noiseless,  and  still,  and  clear,  as 
the  judgments  of  God,  amidst  the  darkness  and  shadow  of 
mortal  destinies.  In  one  chamber  alone,  the  folds,  curtained 
close,  forbade  all  but  a  single  ray;  that  ray  came  direct,  as  the 
stream  from  a  lantern,  as  the  beam  reflected  back  from  an  eye — 
as  an  eye  it  seemed  watchful,  and  steadfast,  through  the  dark; 
it  shot  along  the  floor,  it  fell  at  the  foot  of  the  bed. 

Suddenly,  in  the  exceeding  hush,  there  was  a  strange  and 
ghastly  sound — it  was  the  howl  of  a  dog!  Helen  started 
from  her  sleep.  Percival's  dog  had  followed  her  into  her 
room,  it  had  coiled  itself,  grateful  for  the  kindness,  at  the  foot 
of  the  bed.  Now  it  was  on  the  pillow,  she  felt  its  heart  beat 
against  her  hand ;  it  was  trembling;  its  hairs  bristled  up,  and 
the  howl  changed  into  a  shrill  bark  of  terror  and  wrath. 
Alarmed,  she  looked  round:  quickly  between  her  and  that 
ray  from  the  crevice,  a  shapeless  Darkness  passed,  and  was 
gone!  So  undistinguishable,  so  without  outline,  that  it  had  no 
likeness  of  any  living  form:  like  a  cloud,  like  a  thought,  like 
an  omen,  it  came  in  gloom,  and  it  vanished. 

Helen  was  seized  with  a  superstitious  terror;  the  dog  con- 
tinued to  tremble  and  growl  low.  All  once  more  was  still ; 
the  dog  sighed  itself  to  rest.  The  stillness,  the  solitude,  the 
glimmer  of  the  moon,  all  contributed  yet  more  to  appall  the 
enfeebled  nerves  of  the  listening,  shrinking  girl.  At  length 
she  buried  her  face  under  the  clothes,  and  towards  daybreak 
fell  into  a  broken,  feverish  sleep,  haunted  with  threatening 
dreams. 

CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE  MESSENGER  SPEEDS. 

TOWARDS  the  afternoon  of  the  following  day,  an  elderly 
gentleman  was.  seated  in  the  coffee-room  of  an  hotel  at  South- 


LtickETtA.  361 

amptori,  engaged  in  writing  a  letter,  while  the  waiter  in  attend- 
ance was  employed  on  the  wires  that  fettered  the  petulant 
spirit  contained  in  a  bottle  of  Schweppe's  soda  water.  There 
was  something  in  the  aspect  of  the  old  gentleman,  and  in  the 
very  tone  of  his  voice,  that  inspired  respect,  and  the  waiter  had 
cleared  the  other  tables  of  their  latest  newspapers  to  place 
before  him.  He  had  only  just  arrived  by  the  packet  from 
Havre,  and  even  the  newspapers  had  not  been  to  him  that 
primary  attraction  they  generally  constitute  to  the  Englishman 
returning  to  his  bustling  native  land,  which,  somewhat  to  his 
surprise  has  contrived  to  go  on  tolerably  well  during  his  ab- 
sence. 

We  use  our  privilege  of  looking  over  his  shoulder  while  he 
writes: 

"Here  I  am,  then,  dear  Lady  Mary,  at  Southampton,  and 
within  an  easy  drive  of  the  old  Hall!  A  file  of  Galignani's 
Journals,  which  I  found  on  the  road  between  Marseilles  and 
Paris,  informed  me,  under  the  head  of  'fashionable  movements,' 
that  'Percival  St.  John,  Esq.,  was  gone  to  his  seat  at  Laugh- 
ton.'  According  to  my  customary  tactics  of  marching  at  once 
to  the  seat  of  action,  I  therefore  made  direct  for  Havre,  instead 
of  crossing  from  Calais,  and  I  suppose  I  shall  find  our  young 
gentleman  engaged  in  the  slaughter  of  hares  and  partridges. 
You  see,  it  is  a  good  sign  that  he  can  leave  London.  Keep  up 
your  spirits,  my  dear  friend.  If  Perce  has  been  really  duped 
and  taken  in, — as  all  you  mothers  are  so  apt  to  fancy, — rely 
upon  an  old  soldier  to  defeat  the  enemy,  and  expose  the  ruse. 
But  if,  after  all,  the  girl  is  such  as  he  describes  and  believes — 
innocent,  artless,  and  worthy  his  affection — oh,  then  I  range 
myself,  with  your  good  heart,  upon  his  side.  Never  will  I  run 
the  risk  of  unsettling  a  man's  whole  character  for  life  by  wan- 
tonly interfering  with  his  affections.  But  there  we  are  agreed. 

"In  a  few  hours  I  shall  be  with  our  dear  boy,  and  his  whole 
heart  will  come  out  clear  and  candid  as  when  it  beat  under  his 
midshipman's  true  blue.  In  a  day  or  two,  I  shall  make  him 
take  me  to  town,  to  introduce  me  to  the  whole  nest  of  them. 
Then  I  shall  report  progress.  Adieu,  till  then !  Kind  regards 
to  your  poor  sister.  I  think  we  shall  have  a  mild  winter.  Not 
one  warning  twinge,  as  yet,  of  the  old  rheumatism. 

"Ever  your  devoted  old  friend  and />reux  chevalier, 

"H.  GREVILLE." 

The  captain  had  completed  his  letter,  sipped  his  soda  water, 
and  was  affixing  to  his  communication  his  seal,  when  he  heard 


362  LUCRETiA. 

the  rattle  of  a  post-chaise  without.  Fancying  it  was  the  one 
he  had  ordered,  he  went  to  the  open  window  which  looked  on 
the  street;  but  the  chaise  contained  travellers,  only  halting  to 
Change  horses.  Somewhat  to  his  surprise,  and  a  little  to  his 
chagrin,  for  the  captain  did  not  count  on  finding  company  at 
the  Hall,  he  heard  one  of  the  travellers  in  the  chaise  ask  the 
distance  to  Laughton.  The  countenance  of  the  questioner  was 
not  familiar  to  him.  But,  leaving  the  worthy  captain  to  ques- 
tion the  landlord,  without  any  satisfactory  information,  and  to 
hasten  the  chaise  for  himself,  we  accompany  the  travellers  on 
their  way  to  Laughton.  They  were  but  two — the  proper  com- 
plement of  a  post-chaise — and  they  were  both  of  the  ruder  sex. 
The  elder  of  the  two  was  a  man  of  middle  age,  but  whom  the 
wear  and  tear  of  active  life  had  evidently  advanced  towards 
the  state  called  elderly.  But  there  was  still  abundant  life  in 
his  quick,  dark  eye;  and  that  mercurial  youthf illness  of  char- 
acter, which  in  some  happy  constitutions,  seems  to  defy  years 
and  sorrows,  evinced  itself  in  a  rapid  play  of  countenance,  and 
as  much  gesticulation  as  the  narrow  confines  of  the  vehicle, 
and  the  position  of  a  traveller,  will  permit.  The  younger  man, 
far  more  grave  in  aspect  and  quiet  in  manner,  leaned  back  in 
the  corner  with  folded  arms,  and  listened  with  respectful  at- 
tention to  his  companion. 

"Certainly,  Dr.  Johnson  is  right — great  happiness  in  an  Eng- 
lish post-chaise  properly  driven  !  More  exhilarating  than  a  pal- 
anquin: 'Post  equitem  sedet  atra  curd" — true  only  of  such 
scrubby  hacks  as  old  Horace  could  have  known.  Black  Care 
does  not  sit  behind  English  posters — eh,  my  boy!"  As  he 
spoke  this,  the  gentleman  had  twice  let  down  the  glass  of  the 
vehicle,  and  twice  put  it  up  again. 

"Yet,"  he  resumed,  without  noticing  the  brief,  good- 
humored  reply  of  his  companion;  "Yet  this  is  an  anxious 
business  enough  that  we  are  about.  I  don't  feel  quite  easy  in 
my  conscience.  Poor  Braddell's  injunctions  were  very  strict, 
and  I  disobey  them.  It  is  on  your  responsibility,  John!" 

"I  take  it  without  hesitation.  All  the  motives  for  so  stern 
a  severance  must  have  ceased,  and  is  it  not  a  sufficient  punish- 
ment to  find  in  that  hoped-for  son,  a — 

"Poor  woman!"  interrupted  the  elder  gentleman,  in  whom 
we  begin  to  recognize  the  sol-distant  Mr.  Tomkins;  "True, 
indeed — too  true.  How  well  I  remember  the  impression  Lu- 
cretia  Clavering  first  produced  on  me;  and  to  think  of  her  now 
as  a  miserable  cripple!  By  Jove,  you  are  right,  sir!  Drive  on, 
postboy,  quick,  quick!" 


LUCRETIA.  363 

There  was  a  short  silence. 

The  elder  gentleman,  abruptly  put  his  hand  upon  his  com- 
panion's arm. 

' '  What  consummate  acuteness,  what  patient  research  you  have 
shown!  What  could  I  have  done  in  this  business  without  you? 
How  often  had  that  garrulous  Mrs.  Mivers  bored  me  with 
Becky  Carruthers,  and  the  coral,  and  St.  Paul's,  and  not  a  sus- 
picion came  across  me, — a  word  was  sufficient  for  you ;  and 
then  to  track  this  unfeeling  old  Joplin  from  place  to  place, 
till  you  find  her  absolutely  a  servant  under  the  very  roof  of 
Mrs.  Braddell  herself!  Wonderful!  Ah,  boy,  you  will  be  an 
honor  to  the  law,  and  to  your  country.  And  what  a  hard- 
hearted rascal  you  must  think  me,  to  have  deserted  you  so 
long!" 

"My  dear  father,"  said  John  Ardworth  tenderly,  "your 
love  now  recompenses  me  for  all.  And  ought  I  not  rather  to 
rejoice  not  to  have  known  the  tale  of  a  mother's  shame,  until 
I  could  half  forget  it  on  a  father's  breast?" 

"John,"  said  the  elder  Ardworth,  with  a  choking  voice,  "I 
ought  to  wear  sackcloth  all  my  life,  for  having  given  you  such 
a  mother.  When  I  think  what  I  have  suffered  from  the  habit 
of  carelessness  in  those  confounded  money  matters  ( ' irritamcntct 
malorum,'  indeed!)  I  have  only  one  consolation,  that  my  pa- 
tient, noble  son,  is  free  from  my  vice.  You  would  not  believe 
what  a  well-principled,  honorable  fellow  I  was  at  your  age, 
and  yet,  how  truly  I  said  to  my  poor  friend,  William  Mainwar- 
ing,  one  day  at  Laugh  ton  (I  remember  it  now),  'Trust  me 
with  anything  else  but  half-a-guinea!'  Why,  sir,  it  was  that 
fault  that  threw  me  into  low  company;  that  brought  me  in  con- 
tact with  my  innkeeper's  daughter  at  Limerick.  I  fell  in  love, 
and  I  married  (for,  with  all  my  faults,  I  was  never  a  seducer, 
John).  I  did  not  own  my  marriage;  why  should  I?  My  rela- 
tives had  cut  me  already.  You  were  born,  and  hunted  poor 
devil  as  I  was,  I  forgot  all  by  your  cradle.  Then,  in  the  midst 
of  my  troubles,  that  ungrateful  woman  deserted  me;  then,  I 
was  led  to  believe  that  it  was  not  my  son  whom  I  had  kisssed 
and  blessed.  Ah,  but  for  that  thought  should  I  have  left  you 
as  I  did !  And  even  in  infancy,  you  had  the  features  only  of 
your  mother.  Then,  when  the  death  of  the  adulteress  set  me 
free,  and  years  afterwards,  in  India,  I  married  again,  and  had 
new  ties,  my  heart  grew  still  harder  to  you.  I  excused  myself 
by  knowing  that  at  least  you  were  cared  for,  and  trained  to 
good  by  a  better  guide,  than  I.  But  when,  by  so  strange  a  haz- 
ard, the  very  priest  who  had  confessed  your  mother  on  her 


364  LUCRETIA. 

death-bed  (she  was  a  Catholic),  came  to  India,  and  (for  he  had 
known  me  at  Limerick)  [recognized  my  altered  person,  and 
obeying  his  penitent's  last  injunctions,  assured  me  that  you 
were  my  son,  oh,  John,  then,  believe  me,  I  hastened  back  to 
England  on  the  wings  of  remorse!  Love  you,  boy!  I  have 
left  at  Madras,  three  children,  young  and  fair,  by  a  woman  now 
in  heaven,  who  never  wronged  me,  and,  by  my  soul,  John  Ard- 
worth,  you  are  dearer  to  me  than  all!" 

The  father's  head  dropped  on  his  son's  breast  as  he  spoke; 
then,  dashing  away  his  tears,  he  resumed: 

"Ah,  why  would  not  Braddell  permit  me,  as  I  proposed,  to 
find  for  his  son  the  same  guardianship  as  that  to  which  I  en- 
trusted my  own ;  but  his  bigotry  besotted  him — a  clergyman  of 
the  high  church,  that  was  worse  than  an  atheist!  I  had  no 
choice  left  to  me  but  the  roof  of  that  she-hypocrite.  Yet  I 
ought  to  have  come  to  England  when  I  heard  of  the  child's 
loss;  braved  duns  and  all;  but  I  was  money-making,  money- 
making — retribution  for  money-wasting;  and — well,  it's  no  use 
repenting!  And — and — there  is  the  lodge,  the  park,  the  old 
trees!  Poor  Sir  Miles!" 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

THE  SPY  FLIES. 

MEANWHILE  at  Laughton  there  was  confusion  and  alarm. 
Helen  had  found  herself  more  than  usually  unwell  in  the  morn- 
ing; towards  noon  the  maid  who  attended  her  informed  Mad- 
ame Dalibard  that  she  was  afraid  the  poor  young  lady  had  much 
fever,  and  inquired  if  the  doctor  should  be  sent  for.  Madame 
Dalibard  seemed  surprised  at  the  intelligence,  and  directed  her 
chair  to  be  wheeled  into  her  niece's  room,  in  order  herself  to 
judge  of  Helen's  state.  The  maid,  sure  that  the  doctor  would 
be  summoned,  hastened  to  the  stables,  and  seeing  Beck,  in- 
structed him  to  saddle  one  of  the  horses,  and  to  await  further 
orders.  Beck  kept  her  talking  a  few  moments,  while  he  sad- 
dled his  horse,  and  then  followed  her  into  the  house,  observing 
that  it  would  save  time  if  he  were  close  at  hand. 

"That  is  quite  true,"  said  the  maid,  "and  you  may  as 
well  wait  in  the  corridor.  Madame  may  wish  to  speak  to 
you  herself,  and  give  you  her  own  message  or  note  to  the 
doctor." 

Beck,  full  of  gloomy  suspicions,  gladly  obeyed ;  and  while 


LUCRETIA.  365 

the  maid  entered  the  sick  chamber,  stood  anxiously  without. 
Presently  Varney  passed  him,  and  knocked  at  Helen's  door; 
the  maid  half  opened  it. 

"How  is  Miss  Mainwaring?"  said  he  eagerly. 

"I  fear  she  is  worse,  sir;  but  Madame  Dalibard  does  not 
think  there  is  any  danger." 

"No  danger!  I  am  glad ;  but  pray  ask  Madame  Dalibard  to 
let  me  see  her  for  a  few  moments  in  her  own  room.  If  she 
come  out  I  will  wheel  her  chair  to  it.  Whether  there  is  danger 
or  not,  we  had  better  send  for  other  advice  than  this  country 
doctor,  who  has  perhaps  mistaken  the  case ;  tell  her  I  am  very 
uneasy,  and  beg  her  to  join  me  immediately." 

"I  think  you  are  quite  right,  sir,"  said  the  maid,  closing  the 
door. 

Varney  then  turning  round  for  the  first  time,  noticed  Beck, 
and  said  roughly:  "What  do  you  do  here?  Wait  below  till 
you  are  sent  for." 

Beck  pulled  his  forelock,  and  retreated  back,  not  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  principal  staircase,  but  towards  that  used  by  the  ser- 
vants, and  which  his  researches  into  the  topography  of  the 
mansion  had  now  made  known  to  him.  To  gain  these  back 
stairs  he  had  to  pass  Lucretia's  room;  the  door  stood  ajar; 
Varney's  face  was  turned  from  him.  Beck  breathed  hard, 
looked  round,  then  crept  within,  and,  in  a  moment,  was  be- 
hind the  folds  of  the  tapestry. 

Soon  the  chair  in  which  sate  Madame  Dalibard  was  drawn 
by  Varney  himself  into  the  room. 

Shutting  the  door  with  care,  and  turning  the  keyk  Gabriel 
said,  with  low,  suppressed  passion: 

"Well;  your  mind  seems  wandering — speak!" 

"It  is  strange,"  said  Lucretia,  in  hollow  tones,  "can  Nature 
turn  accomplice  and  befriend  us  here?" 

"Nature!   did  you  not  last  night  administer  the — " 

"No,"  interrupted  Lucretia.  "No;  she  came  into  the 
room;  she  kissed  me  here,  on  the  brow  that  even  then  was 
meditating  murder.  The  kiss  burned;  it  burns  still;  it  ate 
into  the  brain,  like  remorse.  But  I  did  not  yield ;  I  read  her 
false  father's  protestation  of  love ;  I  read  again  the  letter  an- 
nouncing the  discovery  of  my  son,  and  remorse  lay  still.  I 
went  forth  as  before ;  I  stole  into  her  chamber ;  I  had  the  fatal 
crystal  in  my  hand — " 

"Well!   well!" 

"And  suddenly  there  came  the  fearful  howl  of  a  dog!  And 
the  dog's  fierce  eyes  glared  on  me — I  paused — I  trembled — 


366  LUCREtlA. 

Helen  started,  woke,  called  aloud — I  turned  and  fled.  The 
poison  was  not  given." 

Varney  ground  his  teeth.  "But  this  illness !  Ha!  the  effect, 
perhaps,  of  the  drops  adminstered  two  nights  ago." 

"No;  this  illness  has  no  symptoms  like  those  the  poison 
should  bequeathe;  it  is  but  natural  fever,  a  shock  on  the 
nerves;  she  told  me  she  had  been  wakened  by  the  dog's  howl, 
and  seen  a  dark  form,  like  a  thing  from  the  grave,  creeping 
along  the  floor.  But  she  is  really  ill;  send  for  the  physician; 
there  is  nothing  in  her  illness  to  betray  the  hand  of  man.  Be 
it  as  it  may — that  kiss  still  burns — I  will  stir  in  this  no  more. 
Do  what  you  will  yourself!" 

"Fool,  fool!"  exclaimed  Varney,  almost  rudely  grasping 
her  arm.  "Remember  how  much  we  have  yet  to  prepare  for — 
how  much  to  do — and  the  time  so  short!  Percival's  return — 
perhaps  this  Greville's  arrival.  Give  me  the  drugs;  I  will  mix 
them  for  her  in  the  potion  the  physician  sends.  And  when 
Percival  returns — his  Helen  dead  or  dying — why  I  will  attend 
on  him  !  Silent  still?  Recall  your  son!  Soon  you  will  clasp 
him  in  your  arms  as  a  beggar  or  as  the  lord  of  Laughton!" 

Lucretia  shuddered,  but  did  not  rise;  she  drew  forth  a  ring 
of  keys  from  her  bosom,  and  pointed  towards  a  secretary. 
Varney  snatched  the  keys,  unlocked  the  secretary,  seized  the 
fatal  casket,  and  sate  down  quietly  before  it. 

When  the  dire  selections  were  made,  and  secreted  about  his 
person, Varney  rose,  approached  the  fire,  and  blew  the  wood 
embers  to  a  blaze. 

"And  now,"  he  said,  with  his  icy  irony  of  smile,  "we  may 
dismiss  these  useful  instruments,  perhaps  forever.  Though 
Walter  Ardworth,  in  restoring  your  son,  leaves  us  dependent 
on  that  son's  filial  affection,  and  I  may  have,  therefore,  little  to 
hope  for  from  the  succession,  to  secure  which  I  have  risked,  and 
am  again  to  risk,  my  life,  I  yet  trust  to  that  influence  which 
you  never  fail  to  obtain  over  others.  I  take  it  for  granted 
that,  when  these  halls  are  Vincent  Braddell's,  we  shall  have 
no  need  of  gold,  nor  of  these  pale  alchemies.  Perish,  then, 
the  mute  witnesses  of  our  acts! — the  elements  we  have  bowed 
to  our  will!  No  poisons  shall  be  found  in  our  hoards!  Fire, 
consume  your  consuming  children!" 

As  he  spoke,  he  threw  upon  the  hearth  the  contents  of  the 
casket,  and  set  his  heel  upon  the  logs.  A  bluish  flame  shot  up, 
breaking  into  countless  sparks,  and  then  died. 

Lucretia  watched  him,  without  speaking. 

In  coming  back  towards  the  table,  Varney  felt  something 


LUCRfctiA.  367 

hard  beneath  his  tread;  he  stooped,  and  picked  up  the  ring 
which  has  before  been  described  as  amongst  the  ghastly  treas- 
ures of  the  casket,  and  which  had  rolled  on  the  floor,  almost 
to  Lucretia's  feet,  as  he  had  emptied  the  contents  on  the 
hearth. 

"This,  at  least,  need  tell  no  tales,"  said  he;  "A  pity  to 
destroy  so  rare  a  piece  of  workmanship — one,  too,  which  we 
never  can  replace!" 

"Ay,"  said  Lucretia  abstractedly;  "and,  if  detection  comes, 
it  may  secure  a  refuge  from  the  gibbet — give  me  the  ring!" 

"A  refuge  more  terrible  than  the  detection,"  said  Varney; 
"beware  of  such  a  thought,"  as  Lucretia,  taking  it  from  his 
hand,  placed  the  ring  on  her  finger. 

"And  now,  I  leave  you  for  a  while  to  re-collect  yourself,  to 
compose  your  countenance,  and  your  thoughts.  I  will  send 
for  the  physician." 

Lucretia,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor,  did  not  heed  him, 
and  he  withdrew. 

So  motionless  was  her  attitude,  so  still  her  very  breathing, 
that  the  unseen  witness  behind  the  tapestry,  who,  while  struck 
with  horror  at  what  he  had  overheard  (the  general  purport  of 
which  it  was  impossible  that  he  could  misunderstand),  was 
parched  with  impatience  to  escape,  to  rescue  his  beloved  mas- 
ter from  his  impending  fate,  and  warn  him  of  the  fate  hovering 
nearer  still  over  Helen,  ventured  to  creep  along  the  wall  to  the 
threshold;  to  peer  forth  from  the  arras  and,  seeing  her  eyes 
still  downcast,  to  emerge,  and  place  his  hand  on  the  door. 

At  that  very  moment  Lucretia  looked  up,  and  saw  him  glid- 
ing from  the  tapestry;  their  eyes  met;  his  were  fascinated  as 
the  bird's  by  the  snake's.  At  the  sight,  all  her  craft,  her  in- 
tellect returned.  With  a  glance,  she  comprehended  the  terrible 
danger  that  awaited  her.  Before  he  was  aware  of  her  move- 
ment, she  was  at  his  side — her  hand  on  his  own — her  voice  in 
his  ear. 

"Stir  not  a  step,  utter  not  a  sound,  or  you  are — " 

Beck  did  not  suffer  her  to  proceed.  With  the  violence 
rather  of  fear  than  of  courage,  he  struck  her  to  the  ground; 
but  she  clung  to  him  still ;  and,  though  rendered  for  the  mo- 
ment speechless  by  the  suddenness  of  the  blow,  her  eyes  took 
an  expression  of  unspeakable  cruelty  and  fierceness.  He 
struggled  with  all  his  might  to  shake  her  off;  as  he  did  so,  she 
placed  feebly  her  other  hand  upon  the  wrist  of  the  lifted  arm 
that  had  smitten  her,  and  he  felt  a  sharp  pain,  as  if  the  nails 
had  fastened  into  the  flesh.  This  but  exasperated  him  into 


36S  LudkEfiA. 

new  efforts.  He  extricated  himself  from  her  grasp,  which  re- 
laxed, as  her  lips  writhed  into  a  smile  of  scorn  and  triumph, 
and,  spurning  her  while  she  lay  before  the  threshold,  he  opened 
the  door,  sprang  forward,  and  escaped.  No  thought  had  he  of 
tarrying  in  that  House  of  Pelops,  those  human  shambles,  of  de- 
nouncing Murder  in  its  lair;  to  fly,  to  reach  his  master,  warn 
and  shield  him,  that  was  the  sole  thought  which  crossed  his 
confused,  bewildered  brain. 

It  might  be  from  four  to  five  minutes,  that  Lucretia,  half- 
stunned,  half-senseless,  lay  upon  those  floors;  for,  besides  the 
violence  of  her  fall,  the  shock  of  the  struggle,  upon  nerves 
weakened  by  the  agony  of  apprehension,  occasioned  by  the  im- 
minent and  unforeseen  chance  of  detection,  paralyzed  her  won- 
drous vigor  of  mind  and  frame,  when  Varney  entered. 

"They  tell  me  she  sleeps,"  he  said,  in  hoarse  muttered  ac- 
cents, before  he  saw  the  prostrate  form  at  his  very  feet.  But 
Varney's  step,  Varney's  voice,  had  awakened  Lucretia's  rea- 
son to  consciousness  and  the  sense  of  Deril.  Rising,  though 
with  effort,  she  related  hurriedly,  what  had  passed. 

"Fly!  fly!"  she  gasped,  as  she  concluded.  "Fly — to  de- 
tain, to  secrete  this  man  somewhere,  for  the  next  few  hours. 
Silence  him  but  till  then — I  have  done  the  rest!"  And  her 
finger  pointed  to  the  fatal  ring. 

Varney  waited  for  no  farther  words ;  he  hurried  out,  and 
made  at  once  to  the  stables:  his  shrewdness  conjectured  that 
Beck  would  carry  his  tale  elsewhere.  The  groom  was  already 
gone  (his  fellows  said)  without  a  word,  but  towards  the  lodge 
that  led  to  the  Southampton  road.  Varney  ordered  the 
swiftest  horse  the  stables  held  to  be  saddled,  and  said,  as  he 
sprang  on  its  back: 

"I  too,  must  go  towards  Southampton — the  poor  young  lady ! 
I  must  prepare  your  master — he  is  on  his  road  back  to  us"; 
and  the  last  word  was  scarce  out  of  his  lips,  as  the  sparks  flew 
from  the  flints  under  the  horse's  hoofs,  and  he  spurred  from 
the  yard. 

As  he  rode  at  full  speed  through  the  park,  the  villain's  mind 
sped  more  rapidly  than  the  animal  he  bestrode — sped  from 
fear  to  hope — hope  to  assurance.  Grant  that  the  spy  lived  to 
tell  his  tale — incoherent,  improbable  as  the  tale  would  be — who 
would  believe  it?  How  easy  to  meet  tale  by  tale!  The  man 
must  own  that  he  was  secreted  behind  the  tapestry;  wherefore 
but  to  rob?  Detected  by  Madame  Dalibard,  he  had  coined 
this  wretched  fable.  And  the  spy,  too,  could  not  live  through 
the  day ;  he  bore  Death  with  him  as  he. rode ;  he  fed  its  force 


LUCRETIA.  369 

by  his  speed,  and  the  effects  of  the  venom  itself  would  be  those 
of  frenzy.  Tush !  his  tale,  at  best,  would  seem  but  the  rav- 
ings of  delirium.  Still,  it  was  well  to  track  him  where  he  went, 
delay  him,  if  possible;  and  Varney's  spurs  plunged  deep  and 
deeper  into  the  bleeding  flanks:  on  desperately  scoured  the 
horse.  He  passed  the  lodge,  he  was  on  the  road — a  chaise  and 
pair  dashed  by  him;  he  heard  not  a  voice  exclaim  "Varney!" 
He  saw  not  the  wondering  face  of  John  Ardworth ;  bending 
over  the  tossing  mane,  he  was  deaf,  he  was  blind,  to  all  with- 
out and  around.  A  milestone  glides  by,  another,  and  a  third. 
Ha!  his  eyes  can  see  now.  The  object  of  his  chase  is  before 
him  ;  he  views  distinctly,  on  the  brow  of  yon  hill,  the  horse  and 
the  rider  spurring  fast,  like  himself.  They  descend  the  hill, 
horse  and  horseman,  and  are  snatched  from  his  sight.  Up  the 
steep  strains  the  pursuer.  He  is  at  the  summit.  He  sees  the 
fugitive  before  him,  almost  within  hearing.  Beck  has  slack- 
ened his  speed ;  he  seems  swaying  to  and  fro  in  the  saddle. 
Ho,  ho!  the  barbed  ring  begins  to  work  in  his  veins!  Varney 
looks  round — not  another  soul  is  in  sight — a  deep  wood  skirts 
the  road.  Place  and  time  seem  to  favor.  Beck  has  reined  in 
his  horse;  he  bends  low  over  the  saddle,  as  if  about  to  fall. 
Varney  utters  a  half-suppressed  cry  of  triumph,  shakes  his 
reins,  and  spurs  on,  when,  suddenly  (by  the  curve  of  the  road, 
hid  before)  another  chaise  comes  in  sight,  close  where  Beck 
had  wearily  halted. 

The  chaise  stops;  Varney  pulls  in  and  draws  aside  to  the 
hedgerow !  Some  one  within  the  vehicle  is  speaking  to  the 
fugitive !  May  it  not  be  St.  John  himself?  To  his  rage  and 
his  terror,  he  sees  Beck  painfully  dismount  from  his  horse; 
sees  him  totter  to  the  door  of  the  chaise;  sees  a  servant  leap 
from  the  box,  and  help  him  up  the  step;  sees  him  enter.  It 
must  be  Percival  on  his  return !  Percival,  to  whom  he  tells 
that  story  of  horror !  Varney's  brute-like  courage  forsook  him; 
his  heart  was  appalled.  In  one  of  those  panics  so  common 
with  that  boldness  which  is  but  animal,  his  sole  thought  be- 
came that  of  escape.  He  turned  his  horse's  head  to  the  fence, 
forced  his  way  desperately  through  the  barrier,  made  into  the 
wood,  and  sate  there,  cowering  and  listening,  till  in  another 
minute  he  heard  the  wheels  rattle  on,  and  the  horses  gallop 
hard  down  the  hill  towards  the  park. 

The  autumn  wind  swept  through  the  trees;  it  shook  the 
branches  of  the  lofty  ash  that  overhung  the  Accursed  One. 
What  observer  of  nature  knows  not  that  peculiar  sound  which 
the  ash  gives  forth  in  the  blast !  Not  the  solemn  groan  of  the 


370  LUCRETIA. 

oak,  not  the  hollow  murmur  of  the  beech,  but  a  shrill  wail — a 
shriek,  as  of  a  human  voice  in  sharp  anguish.  Varney  shud- 
dered, as  if  he  had  heard  the  death-cry  of  his  intended  vic- 
tims! Through  briars  and  thickets,  torn  by  the  thorns, 
bruised  by  the  boughs,  he  plunged  deeper  and  deeper  into  the 
wood — gained  at  length  the  main  path  cut  through  it — found 
himself  in  a  lane,  and  rode  on,  careless  whither,  till  he 
had  reached  a  small  town  about  ten  miles  from  Laughton, 
where  he  resolved  to  wait  till  his  nerves  had  recovered 
their  tone,  and  he  could  more  calmly  calculate  the  chances 
of  safety. 

CHAPTER  XXVII. 

LUCRETIA    REGAINS    HER    SON. 

IT  seemed  as  if  now,  when  danger  became  most  imminent 
and  present — that  that  very  danger  served  to  restore  to  Lucre- 
tia  Dalibard  all  her  faculties,  which  during  the  earlier  day  had 
been  steeped  in  a  kind  of  dreary  stupor.  The  absolute  neces- 
sity of  playing  out  her  execrable  part  with  all  suitable  and  con- 
sistent hypocrisy  braced  her  into  iron.  But  the  disguise  she 
assumed  was  a  supernatural  effort;  it  stretched  to  cracking 
every  fibre  of  the  brain.  It  seemed  almost  to  herself  as  if, 
her  object  once  gained,  either  life  or  consciousness  could  hold 
out  no  more! 

A  chaise  stopped  at  the  porch — two  gentlemen  descended. 
The  elder  paused  irresolutely,  and  at  length,  taking  out  a  card, 
inscribed  "Mr.  Walter  Ardworth,"  said,  "If  Madame  Dali- 
bard can  be  spoken  to  for  a  moment,  will  you  give  her  this 
card?" 

The  footman  hesitatingly  stared  at  the  card,  and  then  invited 
the  gentlemen  into  the  hall,  while  he  took  up  the  message. 
Not  long  had  the  visitor  to  wait,  pacing  the  dark  oak  floors 
and  gazing  on  the  faded  banners,  before  the  servant  reap- 
peared— Madame  Dalibard  would  see  him.  He  followed  his 
guide  up  the  stairs;  while  his  young  companion  turned  from 
the  hall,  and  seated  himself  musingly  on  one  of  the  benches 
on  the  deserted  terrace. 

Grasping  the  arms  of  the  chair  with  both  hands,  her  eyes 
fixed  eagerly  on  his  face,  Lucretia  Dalibard  awaited  the  wel- 
come visitor. 

Prepared  as  he  had  been  for  change,  Walter  was  startled  by 
the  ghastly  alteration  in  Lucretia' s  features,  increased,  as  it 


LUCRETIA.  371 

was  that  moment,  by  all  the  emotions  which  raged  within. 
He  sank  into  the  chair  placed  for  him  opposite  Lucretia,  and, 
clearing  his  throat,  said,  falteringly : 

"I  grieve  indeed,  madam,  that  my  visit,  intended  to  bring 
but  joy,  should  chance  thus  inopportunely.  The  servant  in- 
formed me,  as  we  came  up  the  stairs,  that  your  niece  was  ill, 
and  I  sympathize  with  your  natural  anxiety — Susan's  only 
child,  too — poor  Susan!" 

"Sir,"  said  Lucretia  impatiently,  "these  moments  are  pre- 
cious. Sir — sir!  My  son — my  son!"  and  her  eyes  glanced 
to  the  door.  "You  have  brought  with  you  a  companion, — 
does  he  wait  without?  My  son!" 

"Madam,  give  me  a  moment's  patience.  I  will  be  brief, 
and  compress  what,  in  other  moments,  might  be  a  long  narra- 
tive, into  a  few  sentences." 

Rapidly,  then,  Walter  Ardworth  passed  over  the  details,  un- 
necessary now  to  repeat  to  the  reader;  the  injunctions  of 
Braddell,  the  delivery  of  the  child  to  the  woman  selected  by 
his  fellow-sectarian  (who,  it  seemed,  by  John  Ardworth's 
recent  inquiries,  was  afterwards  expelled  the  community,  and 
who,  there  was  reason  to  believe,  had  been  the  first  seducer  of 
the  woman  thus  recommended).  No  clue  to  the  child's  par- 
entage had  been  given  to  the  woman,  with  the  sum  entrusted 
for  his  maintenance,  which  sum  had  perhaps  been  the  main 
cause  of  her  reckless  progress  to  infamy  and  ruin.  The  narra- 
tor passed  lightly  over  the  neglect  and  cruelty  of  the  nurse,  to 
her  abandonment  of  the  child  when  the  money  was  exhausted. 
Fortunately,  she  had  overlooked  the  coral  round  its  neck.  By 
that  coral,  and  by  the  initials,  V.  B.,  which  Ardworth  had  had  the 
precaution  to  have  burned  into  the  child's  wrist,  the  lost  son 
had  been  discovered;  the  nurse  herself  (found  in  the  person  of 
Martha  Skeggs,  Lucretia's  own  servant)  had  been  confronted 
with  the  woman  to  whom  she  gave  the  child,  and  recognized 
at  once.  Nor  had  it  been  difficult  to  obtain  from  her  the  con- 
fession which  completed  the  evidence. 

"In  this  discovery,"  continued  Ardworth,  "the  person  I  em- 
ployed met  your  own  agent,  and  the  last  links  in  the  chain  they 
traced  together.  But  to  that  person — to  his  zeal  and  intelli- 
gence— you  owe  the  happiness  I  trust  to  give  you.  He  sym- 
pathized with  me  the  more  that  he  knew  you  personally,  felt 
for  your  sorrows,  and  had  a  lingering  belief  that  you  supposed 
him  to  be  the  child  you  yearned  for.  Madam,  thank  my  son 
for  the  restoration  of  your  own!" 

Without  sound,  Lucretia  had  listened  to  these  details,  though 


372  LUCRETIA. 

her  countenance  changed  fearfully  as  the  narrator  proceeded. 
But  now  she  groaned  aloud  and  in  agony. 

"Nay,  madam,"  said  Ardworth,  feelingly  and  in  some  sur- 
prise, "surely  the  discovery  of  your  son  should  create  gladder 
emotions.  Though,  indeed,  you  will  be  prepared  to  find  that 
the  poor  youth  so  reared  wants  education  and  refinement,  I 
have  heard  enough  to  convince  me  that  his  dispositions  are 
good  and  his  heart  grateful.  Judge  of  this  yourself;  he  is  in 
these  walls — he  is — " 

"Abandoned  by  a  harlot — reared  by  a  beggar!  My  son!" 
interrupted  Lucretia,  in  broken  sentences.  '  'Well,  sir,  have  you 
discharged  your  task!  Well  have  you  replaced  a  mother!" 

Before  Ardworth  could  reply,  loud  and  rapid  steps  were 
heard  in  the  corridor,  and  a  voice,  cracked,  indistinct,  but  ve- 
hement. The  door  was  thrown  open,  and,  half-supported  by 
Captain  Greville,  half-dragging  him  along,  his  features  con- 
vulsed, whether  by  pain  or  passion,  the  spy  upon  Lucretia's 
secrets,  the  denouncer  of  her  crime,  tottered  to  the  threshold. 
Pointing  to  where  she  sat  with  his  long,  lean  arm,  Beck  ex- 
claimed: "Seize  her!  I  'cuse  her  ,  face  to  face,  of  the  mur- 
der of  her  niece!  Of — of  I  told  you,  sir — I  told  you — " 

"Madam,"  said  Captain  Greville,  "you  stand  charged  by 
this  witness  with  the  most  terrible  of  human  crimes.  I  judge 
you  not.  Your  niece,  I  rejoice  to  hear,  yet  lives !  Pray  God 
that  her  death  be  not  traced  to  those  kindred  hands!" 

Turning  her  eyes  from  one  to  the  other  with  a  wandering 
stare,  Lucretia  Dalibard  remained  silent.  But  there  was  still 
scorn  on  her  lip,  and  defiance  on  her  brow.  At  last  she  said 
slowly,  and  to  Ardworth: 

"Where  is  my  son?  You  say,  he  is  within  these  walls;  call 
him  forth  to  protect  his  mother !  Give  me,  at  least,  my  son — 
my  son!" 

Her  last  words  were  drowned  by  a  fresh  burst  of  fury  from 
her  denouncer.  In  all  the  coarsest  invective  his  education 
could  supply;  in  all  the  hideous  vulgarities  of  his  untutored 
dialect;  in  that  uncurbed  licentiousness  of  tone,  look,  and 
manner  which  passion,  once  aroused,  gives  to  the  dregs  and 
scum  of  the  populace,  Beck  poured  forth  his  frightful 
charges — his  frantic  execrations.  In  vain  Captain  Greville 
strove  to  check  him.  In  vain  Walter  Ardworth  sought  to  draw 
him  from  the  room.  But  while  the  poor  wretch — maddening 
not  more  with  the  consciousness  of  the  crime,  than  with  the 
excitement  of  the  poison  in  his  blood — thus  raved  and  stormed, 
a  terrible  suspicion  crossed  Walter  Ardworth;  mechanically — - 


LUCRETIA.  373 

as  his  grasp  was  on  the  accuser's  arm — he  bared  the  sleeve, 
and  on  the  wrist  were  the  dark  blue  letters,  burned  into  the 
skin,  and  bearing  witness  to  his  identity  with  the  lost  Vincent 
Braddell. 

"Hold,  hold!"  he  exclaimed  then;  "Hold,  unhappy  man! 
It  is  your  mother  whom  you  denounce!" 

Lucretia  sprang  up  erect — her  eyes  seemed  starting  from  her 
head ;  she  caught  at  the  arm  pointed  towards  her  in  wrath  and 
menace,  and  there,  amidst  those  letters  that  proclaimed  her 
son,  was  the  small  puncture  surrounded  by  a  livid  circle,  that 
announced  her  victim.  In  the  same  instant  she  discovered  her 
child  in  the  man  who  was  calling  down  upon  her  head  the  ha- 
tred of  Earth  and  the  justice  of  Heaven,  and  knew  herself  his 
murderess. 

She  dropped  the  arm,  and  sank  back  on  the  chair;  and, 
whether  the  poison  had  now  reached  to  the  vitals,  or  whether 
so  unwonted  a  passion  in  so  frail  a  frame  sufficed  for  the 
death-stroke,  Beck  himself,  with  a  low,  suffocated  cry,  slid 
from  the  hand  of  Ardworth,  and  tottering  a  -step  or  so,  the 
blood  gushed  from  his  mouth,  over  Lucretia's  robe ;  his  head 
drooped  an  instant,  and  falling,  rested  first  upon  her  lap,  then 
struck  heavily  upon  the  floor.  The  two  men  bent  over  him, 
and  raised  him  in  their  arms:  his  eyes  opened  and  closed;  his 
throat  rattled,  and,  as  he  fell  back  into  their  arm  a  corpse,  a 
laugh  rose  close  at  hand — it  rang  through  the  walls,  it  was 
heard  near  and  afar,  above  and  below.  Not  an  ear  in  that 
house  that  heard  it  not.  In  that  laugh  fled  forever,  till  the 
Judgment-day,  from  the  blackened  ruins  of  her  lost  soul,  the 
reason  of  the  murderess-mother. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

THE    LOTS    VANISH    WITHIN    THE    URN. 

VARNEY'S  self-commune  restored  to  him  his  constitutional 
audacity.  He  returned  to  Laughton  towards  the  evening,  and 
held  a  long  conference  with  Greville.  Fortunately  for  him, 
perhaps,  and  happily  for  all,  Helen  had  lost  all  more  dangerous 
symptoms  ,  and  the  physician  who  was  in  the  house  saw  in  her 
state  nothing  not  easily  to  be  accounted  for  by  natural  causes. 
Percival  had  arrived,  had  seen  Helen — no  wonder  she  was 
better.  Both  from  him  and  from  Helen,  Madame  Dalibard's 
fearful  condition  was  for  the  present  concealed.  Ardworth's 
story,  and  the  fact  of  Beck's  identity  with  Vincent  Braddell, 


374  LUCRETIA. 

were  also  reserved  for  a  later  occasion.  .  .  .  The  tale  which 
Beck  had  poured  into  the  ear  of  Greville  (when  recognizing 
the  St.  John  livery  the  Captain  stopped  his  chaise  to  inquire 
if  Percival  were  at  the  Hall,  and  when,  thrilled  by  the  hideous 
import  of  his  broken  reply,  that  gentleman  had  caused  him  to 
enter  the  vehicle  to  explain  himself  further)  Varney,  with  his 
wonted  art  and  address,  contrived  to  strip  of  all  probable  sem- 
blance. Evidently  the  poor  lad  had  been  already  delirious; 
his  story  must  be  deemed  the  night-mare  of  his  disordered  rea- 
son. Varney  insisted  upon  surgical  examination  as  to  the 
cause  of  his  death:  the  membranes  of  the  brain  were  found 
surcharged  with  blood,  as  in  cases  of  great  mental  excitement ; 
the  slight  puncture  in  the  wrist,  ascribed  to  the  prick  of  a  rusty 
nail,  provoked  no  suspicion.  If  some  doubts  remained  still 
on  Greville's  acute  mind,  he  was  not  eager  to  express,  still  less 
to  act,  upon  them.  Helen  was  declared  to  be  out  of  danger. 
Percival  was  safe — why  affix  by  minute  inquiry  into  the 
alleged  guilt  of  Madame  Dalibard  (already  so  awfully  affected 
by  the  death  of  her  son  and  by  the  loss  of  her  reason)  so  foul 
a  stain  on  the  honored  family  of  St.  John?  But  Greville  was 
naturally  anxious  to  free  the  house  as  soon  as  possible  both  of 
Varney  and  that  ominous  Lucretia,  whose  sojourn  under  its 
roof  seemed  accursed.  He  therefore  readily  assented  when 
Varney  proposed,  as  his  obvious  and  personal  duty,  to  take 
charge  of  his  mother-in-law,  and  remove  her  to  London  for 
immediate  advice. 

At  the  dead  of  the  black-clouded  night — no  moon  and  no 
stars — the  son  of  Olivier  Dalibard  bore  away  the  form  of  the 
once  formidable  Lucretia :  the  form,  for  the  mind  was  gone ; 
that  teeming-,  restless,  and  fertile  intellect,  which  had  carried 
along  the  projects,  with  the  preter-human  energies,  of  the 
fiend,  was  hurled  into  night  and  chaos.  Manacled  and  bound, 
for  at  times  her  paroxysms  were  terrible,  and  all  partook  of  the 
destructive  and  murderous  character  which  her  faculties,  when 
present,  had  betrayed,  she  was  placed  in  the  vehicle  by  the 
shrinking  side  of  her  accomplice. 

Long  before  he  arrived  in  London,  Varney  had  got  rid  of 
his  fearful  companion.  His  chaise  had  stopped  at  the  iron 
gates  of  a  large  building,  somewhat  out  of  the  main  road,  and 
the  doors  of  the  Madhouse  closed  on  Lucretia  Dalibard. 

Varney  then  hastened  to  Dover  with  intentions  of  flight  into 
France;  he  was  just  about  to  step  into  the  vessel  when  he  was 
tapped  rudely  on  the  shoulder,  and  a  determined  voice  said; 
"Mr.  Gabriel  Varney,  you  are  my  prisoner!" 


LUCRETIA.  375 

'For  what — some  paltry  debt?"  said  Varney  haughtily. 

"For  forgery  on  the  Bank  of  England!" 

Varney's  hand  plunged  into  his  vest.  The  officer  seized  it 
in  time,  and  wrested  ihe  blade  from  his  grasp.  Once  arrested 
for  an  offence  it  was  impossible  to  disprove,  although  the  very 
smallest  of  which  his  conscience  might  charge  him,  Varney 
sank  into  the  blackest  despair.  Though  he  had  often  boasted, 
not  only  to  others,  but  to  his  own  vain  breast,  of  the  easy 
courage  with  which,  when  life  ceased  to  yield  enjoyment,  he 
could  dismiss  it  by  the  act  of  his  own  will ;  though  he  had  pos- 
sessed himself  of  Lucretia's  murderous  ring,  and  death,  if  fear- 
ful, was  therefore  at  his  command,  self-destruction  was  the  last 
thought  that  occurred  to  him;  that  morbid  excitability  of  fancy, 
which,  whether  in  his  art  or  in  his  deeds,  had  led  him  to 
strange  delight  in  horror,  now  served  but  to  haunt  him  with 
the  images  of  death  in  those  ghastliest  shapes  familiar  to  them 
who  look  only  into  the  bottom  of  the  charnel,  and  see  but  the 
rat  and  the  worm,  and  the  loathsome  agencies  of  corruption. 
It  was  not  the  despair  of  conscience  that  seized  him,  it  was  the 
abject  clinging  to  life;  not  the  remorse  of  the  soul, — that  still 
slept  within  him,  too  noble  an  agency  for  one  so  debased — but 
the  gross  physical  terror.  As  the  fear  of  the  tiger  once 
aroused  is  more  paralyzing  than  that  of  the  deer,  proportioned 
to  the  savageness  of  a  disposition  to  which  fear  is  a  novelty, 
so  the  very  boldness  of  Varney  coming  only  from  the  perfec- 
tion of  the  nervous  organization,  and  unsupported  by  one 
moral  sentiment,  once  struck  down,  was  corrupted  into  the 
vilest  cowardice.  With  his  audacity,  his  shrewdness  forsook 
him.  Advised  by  his  lawyer  to  plead  guilty,  he  obeyed,  and 
the  sentence  of  transportation  for  life  gave  him,  at  first,  a  feel- 
ing of  reprieve ;  but  when  his  imagination  began  to  picture,  in 
the  darkness  of  his  cell,  all  the  true  tortures  of  that  penalty, 
not  so  much,  perhaps,  to  the  uneducated  peasant  felon,  inured 
to  toil,  and  familiarized  with  coarse  companionship,  as  to  one 
pampered  like  himself  by  all  soft  and  half  womanly  indul- 
gences— the  shaven  hair,  the  convict's  dress,  the  rigorous  pri- 
vation, the  drudging  toil, — the  exile  seemed  as  grim  as  the 
grave.  In  the  dotage  of  faculties  smitten  into  drivelling,  he 
wrote  to  the  Home  Office,  offering  to  disclose  secrets  connected 
with  crimes  that  had  hitherto  escaped  or  baffled  justice,  on 
condition  that  his  sentence  might  be  repealed,  or  mitigated 
into  the  gentler  forms  of  ordinary  transportation.  No  answer 
was  returned  to  him;  but  his  letter  provoked  research;  cir- 
cumstances connected  with  his  uncle's  death,  and  with  various 


376  LUCRfcTlA. 

other  dark  passages  in  his  life,  sealed  against  him  all  hope  of 
more  merciful  sentence,  and  when  some  acquaintances  whom 
his  art  had  made  for  him,  and  who,  while  grieving  for  his 
crime,  saw  in  it  some  excuses  (ignorant  of  his  feller  deeds), 
sought  to  intercede  in  his  behalf,  the  reply  of  the  Home 
Office  was  obvious:  "He  is  a  fortunate  man  to  have  been 
tried  and  condemned  for  his  least  offence."  Not  one  indul- 
gence that  could  distinguish  him  from  the  most  execrable  ruf- 
fian, condemned  to  the  same  sentence,  was  conceded. 

The  idea  of  the  gibbet  lost  all  its  horror.  Here  was  a  gib- 
bet for  every  hour!  No  hope;  no  escape.  Already  that 
Future  Doom  which  comprehends  the  "Forever"  opened  upon 
him,  black  and  fathomless.  The  hour-glass  was  broken  up; 
the  hand  of  the  time-piece  was  arrested.  The  Beyond  stretched 
before  him,  without  limit,  without  goal — on  into  Annihilation 
or  into  Hell. 


EPILOGUE  TO  PART  THE  SECOND. 

STAND,  O  Man,  upon  the  hill-top,  in  the  stillness  of  the 
evening  hour,  and  gaze,  not  with  joyous,  but  with  contented 
eyes,  upon  the  beautiful  world  around  thee!  See,  where  the 
mists,  soft  and  dim,  rise  over  the  green  meadows,  through 
which  the  rivulet  steals  its  way!  See  where,  broadest  and 
stillest,  the  wave  expands  to  the  full  smile  of  the  setting  sun; 
and  the  willow  that  trembles  on  the  breeze,  and  the  oak  that 
stands  firm  in  the  storm,  are  reflected  back,  peaceful  both, 
from  the  clear  glass  of  the  tides !  See,  where,  begirt  by  the 
gold  of  the  harvests,  and  backed  by  the  pomp  of  a  thousand 
groves,  the  roofs  of  the  town  bask,  noiseless,  in  the  calm  glow 
of  the  sky.  Not  a  sound  from  those  abodes  floats  in  discord  to 
thine  ear;  only  from  the  church-tower,  soaring  high  above  the 
rest,  perhaps  faintly  heard  through  the  stillness,  swells  the  note 
of  the  holy  bell.  Along  the  mead  low-skims  the  swallow ;  on  the 
wave,  the  silver  circlet,  breaking  into  spray,  shows  the  sport 
of  the  fish.  See,  the  Earth,  how  serene,  though  all  eloquent 
of  activity  and  life!  See  the  Heavens,  how  benign,  though 
dark  clouds,  by  yon  mountain,  blend  the  purple  with  the  gold ! 
Gaze  contented,  for  Good  is  around  thee;  not  joyous,  for  Evil 
is  the  shadow  of  Good!  Let  thy  soul  pierce  through  the  veil 
of  the  senses,  and  thy  sight  plunge  deeper  than  the  surface 
which  gives  delight  to  thine  eye.  Below  the  glass  of  that  river, 


LUCRETIA.  377 

the  pike  darts  on  his  prey;  the  circle  in  the  wave,  the  soft 
splash  amongst  the  reeds,  are  but  signs  of  Destroyer  and  of 
Victim.  In  the  ivy  round  the  oak  by  the  margin,  the  owl  hun- 
gers for  the  night,  which  shall  give  its  beak  and  its  talons  liv- 
ing food  for  its  young ;  and  the  spray  of  the  willow  trembles 
with  the  wing  of  the  redbreast,  whose  bright  eye  sees  the  worm 
on  the  sod.  Canst  thou  count  too,  O  Man!  all  the  cares,  all 
the  sins,  that  those  noiseless  roof-tops  conceal?  With  every 
curl  of  that  smoke  to  the  sky,  a  human  thought  soars  as  dark, 
a  human  hope  melts  as  briefly.  And  the  bell  from  the 
church-tower,  that  to  thy  ear  gives  but  music,  perhaps  knells 
tor  the  dead.  The  swallow  but  chases  the  moth,  and  the  cloud 
that  deepens  the  glory  of  the  heaven  and  the  sweet  shadows  on 
the  earth,  nurses  but  the  thunder  that  shall  rend  the  grove, 
and  the  storm  that  shall  devastate  the  harvests.  Not  with 
fear,  not  with  doubt,  recognize,  O  Mortal,  the  presence  of  Evil 
in  the  world.*  Hush  thy  heart  in  the  humbleness  of  awe, 
that  its  mirror  may  reflect  as  serenely  the  shadow  as  the  light. 
Vainly,  for  its  moral,  dost  thou  gaze  on  the  landscape,  if  thy 
soul  puts  no  check  on  the  dull  delight  of  the  senses.  Two 
wings  only  raise  thee  to  the  summit  of  Truth,  where  the  Cher- 
ub shall  comfort  the  sorrow,  where  the  Seraph  shall  enlighten 
the  joy.  Dark  as  ebony  spreads  the  one  wing,  white  as  snow 
gleams  the  other — mournful  as  thy  reason  when  it  descends  into 
deep,  exulting  as  ihy  faith  when  it  springs  to  the  day-star. 

Beck  sleeps  in  the  churchyard  of  Laughton.  He  had  lived 
to  frustrate  the  monstrous  design  intended  to  benefit  himself, 
and  to  become  the  instrument,  while  the  victim,  of  the  dread 
Eumenides.  That  done,  his  life  passed  with  the  crimes  that 
had  gathered  around,  out  of  the  sight  of  mortals.  Helen 
slowly  regained  her  health  in  the  atmosphere  of  love  and  hap- 
piness ;  and  Lady  Mary  soon  learned  to  forget  the  fault  of  the 
father  in  the  virtues  of  the  Child.  Married  to  Percival,  Helen 
fulfilled  the  destinies  of  woman's  genius,  in  calling  forth  into 
action  man's  earnest  duties.  She  breathed  into  Percival's 
warm,  beneficent  heart  her  own  more  steadfast  and  divine  in- 
telligence. Like  him  she  grew  ambitious,  by  her  he  became 
distinguished.  While  I  write,  fair  children  play  under  the 
cedars  of  Laughton.  And  the  husband  tells  the  daughters  to 
resemble  their  mother;  and  the  wife's  highest  praise  to  the 

*  Not,  indeed,  that  the  evil  here  narrated  is  the  ordinary  evil  of  the  wotld.  The  lesson 
it  inculcates  would  be  lost,  if  so  construed ;  but  that  the  mystery  of  evil,  whatever  its  de- 
gree, only  increases  the  necessity  of  faith  in  the  vindication  of  the  contrivance  which  re- 
quires infinity  for  its  range,  and  eternity  for  its  consummation!  It  is  10  the  existence  of 
evil  that  man  finds  his  duties,  and  his.  soul  its  progress, 


378  LUCRETIA. 

boys  is:  "You  have  spoken  truth  or  done  good  like  your 
father." 

John  Ardworth  has  not  paused  in  his  career,  nor  belied  the 
promise  of  his  youth.  Though  the  elder  Ardworth,  partly  by 
his  own  exertions,  partly  by  his  second  marriage  with  the 
daughter  of  the  French  merchant  (through  whose  agency  he 
had  corresponded  with  Fielden),  had  realized  a  moderate  for- 
tune, it  but  sufficed  for  his  own  wants,  and  for  the  children  of 
his  later  nuptials,  upon  whom  the  bulk  of  it  was  settled. 
Hence,  happily  perhaps  for  himself  and  others,  the  easy  cir- 
cumstances of  his  father  allowed  to  John  Ardworth  no  ex- 
emption from  labor.  His  success  in  the  single  episode  from 
active  life  to  literature,  did  not  intoxicate  or  mislead  him.  He 
knew  that  his  real  element  was  not  in  the  field  of  letters,  but 
in  the  world  of  men.  Not  undervaluing  the  noble  destinies  of 
the  Author,  he  felt  that  those  destinies,  if  realized  to  the  ut- 
most, demanded  powers  other  than  his  own ;  and  that  man  is 
only  true  to  his  genius  when  the  genius  is  at  home  in  his 
career.  He  would  not  renounce  for  a  brief  celebrity  distant 
and  solid  fame.  He  continued  for  a  few  years  in  patience  and 
privation,  and  confident  self-reliance,  to  drudge  on,  till  the 
occupation  for  the  intellect  fed  by  restraint,  and  the  learning 
accumulated  by  study,  came  and  found  the  whole  man  devel- 
oped and  prepared.  Then  he  rose  rapidly  from  step  to  step; 
then,  still  retaining  his  high  enthusiasm,  he  enlarged  his  sphere 
of  action  from  the  cold  practice  of  law,  into  those  vast  social 
improvements  which  law,  rightly  regarded,  should  lead,  and 
vivify,  and  create.  Then,  and  long  before  the  twenty  years  he 
had  imposed  on  his  probation  had  expired,  he  gazed  again 
upon  the  senate  and  the  abbey,  and  saw  the  doors  of  the  one 
open  to  his  resolute  tread,  and  anticipated  the  glorious  sepul- 
chre which  heart  and  brain  should  win  him  in  the  other. 

John  Ardworth  has  never  married.  When  Percival  rebukes 
him  for  his  celibacy,  his  lip  quivers  slightly,  and  he  applies 
himself  with  more  dogged  earnestness  to  his  studies  or  his 
career.  But  he  never  complains  that  his  lot  is  lonely  or  his 
affections  void.  For  him  who  aspires,  and  for  him  who  loves, 
life  may  lead  through  the  thorns,  but  it  never  stops  in  the  desert. 

On  the  minor  personages  involved  in  this  history,  there  is 
little  need  to  dwell.  Mr.  Fielden,  thanks  to  St.  John,  has 
obtained  a  much  better  living  in  the  rectory  of  Laughton,  but 
has  found  new  resources  of  pleasant  trouble  for  himself,  in 
seeking  to  drill  into  the  mind  of  Pcrcival's  eldest  son  the  ele- 
ments of  Euclid  and  the  principles  of  Latin  syntax, 


LUCRETIA.  379 

We  may  feel  satisfied  that  the  Mivers  will  go  on  much  the 
same  while  trade  enriches  without  refining,  and  while,  never- 
theless, right  feelings  in  the  common  paths  of  duty  may  unite 
charitable  emotions  with  graceless  language. 

We  may  rest  assured  that  the  poor  widow  who  had  reared 
the  lost  son  of  Lucretia  received  from  the  bounty  of  Percival 
all  that  could  comfort  her  for  his  death. 

We  have  no  need  to  track  the  dull  crimes  of  Martha,  or  the 
quick,  cunning  vices  of  Grabman,  to  their  inevitable  goals,  in 
the  hospital  or  the  prison,  the  dunghill  or  the  gibbet. 

Of  the  elder  Ardworth  our  parting  notice  may  be  less  brief. 
We  first  saw  him  in  sanguine  and  generous  youth,  with  higher 
principles  and  clearer  insight  into  honor  than  William  Main- 
waring.  We  have  seen  him  next  a  spendthrift  and  a  fugitive,  his 
principles  debased,  and  his  honor  dimmed.  He  presents  to  us 
no  uncommon  example  of  the  corruption  engendered  by  that 
vulgar  self-indulgence  which  mortgages  the  morrow  for  the 
pleasures  of  to-day.  No  Deity  presides  where  Prudence  is 
absent.  Man,  a  world  in  himself,  requires  for  the  develop- 
ment of  his  faculties,  patience;  and  for  the  balance  of  his 
actions,  order.  Even  where  he  had  deemed  himself  most  op- 
pressively made  the  martyr,  viz.,  in  the  profession  of  mere 
political  opinions,  Walter  Ardworth  had  but  followed  out  into 
theory  the  restless,  uncalculating  impatience,  which  had 
brought  adversity  on  his  manhood,  and,  despite  his  constitu- 
tional cheerfulness,  shadowed  his  age  with  remorse.  The 
death  of  the  child  committed  to  his  charge,  long  (perhaps  to 
the  last)  embittered  his  pride  in  the  son  whom,  without 
merit  of  his  own,  Providence  had  spared  to  a  brighter  fate. 
But  for  the  faults  which  had  banished  him  his  country,  and 
the  habits  which  had  seared  his  sense  of  duty,  could  that  child 
have  been  so  abandoned  and  have  so  perished? 

It  remains  only  to  cast  our  glance  over  the  punishments 
which  befell  the  sensual  villany  of  Varney,  the  intellectual 
corruption  of  his  fell  stepmother. 

These  two  persons  had  made  a  very  trade  of  those  crimes  to 
which  man's  law  awards  death.  They  had  said  in  their  hearts 
that  they  would  dare  the  crime,  but  elude  the  penalty.  By 
wonderful  subtlety,  craft,  and  dexterity,  which  reduced  guilt 
to  a  science,  Providence  seemed,  as  in  disdain  of  the  vulgar 
instruments  of  common  retribution,  to  concede  to  them  that 
which  they  had  schemed  for,  escape  from  the  rope  and  gibbet. 
Varney,  saved  from  detection  of  his  darker  and  more  inexplic- 
able crimes,  punished  only  for  the  least  one,  retained  what  had 


380  LUCRETIA. 

seemed  to  him  the  master  boon — life!  Safer  still  from  the 
law,  no  mortal  eye  had  plumbed  the  profound  night  of  Lucre- 
tia's  awful  guilt.  Murderess  of  husband  and  son,  the  blinded 
law  bade  her  go,  unscathed,  unsuspected.  Direct  as  from 
Heaven,  without  a  cloud,  fell  the  thunderbolt.  Is  the  life 
they  have  saved  worth  the  prizing?  Doth  the  chalice,  unspilt 
on  the  ground,  not  return  to  the  hand?  Is  the  sudden  pang  of 
the  hangman  more  fearful  than  the  doom  which  they  breathe 
and  bear?  Look,  and  judge! 

Behold,  that  dark  ship  on  the  waters !  Its  burthens  are  not 
of  Ormus  and  Tyre.  No  goodly  merchandise  doth  it  waft  over 
the  wave,  no  blessing  cleaves  to  its  sails;  freighted  with  terror 
and  with  guilt,  with  remorse  and  despair,  or  more  ghastly  than 
either,  the  sullen  apathy  of  souls  hardened  into  stone,  it  carries 
the  dregs  and  offal  of  the  old  world  to  populate  the  new.  On  a 
bench  in  that  ship  sit  side  by  side  two  men,  companions 
assigned  to  each  other.  Pale,  abject,  cowering,  all  the  bravery 
rent  from  his  garb,  all  the  gay  insolence  vanished  from  his 
brow,  can  that  hollow-eyed,  haggard  wretch  be  the  same  man 
whose  senses  opened  on  every  joy,  whose  nerves  mocked  at 
every  peril?  But  beside  him,  with  a  grin  of  vile  glee  on  his 
features,  all  muscle  and  brawn  in  the  form,  all  malice,  at  once 
spiteful  and  dull,  in  the  heavy  eye,  sits  his  fit  comrade — the 
Grave-stealer!  At  the  first  glance  each  has  recognized  each, 
and  the  prophecy  and  the  vision  rushed  back  upon  the  daintier 
convict.  If  he  seek  to  escape  from  him,  the  grave-stealer 
claims  him  as  a  prey,  he  threatens  him  with  his  eye  as  a  slave, 
he  kicks  him  with  his  hoof  as  they  sit,  and  laughs  at  the  writh- 
ing of  the  pain.  Carry  on  your  gaze  from  the  ship:  hear  the 
cry  from  the  mast-head — see  the  land  arise  from  the  waste! 
A  land  without  hope!  At  first,  despite  the  rigor  of  the  Home 
Office,  the  education  and  intelligence  of  Varney  have  their 
price ;  the  sole  crime  for  which  he  is  convicted  is  not  the  dark- 
est. He  escapes  from  that  hideous  comrade ;  he  can  teach  as 
a  schoolmaster ;  let  his  brain  work,  not  his  hands !  But  the 
most  irredeemable  of  convicts  are  ever  those  of  nurture,  and 
birth,  and  culture  better  than  the  ruffian-rest.  You  may  en- 
lighten the  clod,  but  the  meteor  still  must  feed  on  the  marsh : 
And  the  pride,  and  the  vanity,  work  where  the  crime  itself 
seems  to  lose  its  occasion.  Ever  avid,  ever  grasping,  he  falls 
step  by  step,  in  the  foul  sink,  and  the  colony  sees  in  Gabriel 
Varney  its  most  pestilent  rogue;  arch-convict  amidst  convicts, 
doubly  lost  amongst  the  damned;  they  banish  him  to  the 
sternest  of  the  penal  settlements ;  they  send  him  forth  with  the 


LUCRETIA.  381 

vilest  to  break  stones  upon  the  roads.  Shrivelled,  and  bowed, 
and  old,  prematurely — see  that  sharp  face  peering  forth  amongst 
the  gang,  scarcely  human ;  see  him  cringe  to  the  lash  of  the 
scornful  overseer;  see  the  pairs  chained  together,  night  and 
day!  Ho,  ho!  his  comrade  hath  found  him  again,  the  Artist 
and  the  Grave-stealer  leashed  together.  Conceive  that  fancy 
so  nurtured  by  habit:  those  tastes,  so  womanized  by  indul- 
gence— the  one  suggesting  the  very  horrors  that  are  not,  the 
other  revolting  at  all  toil  as  a  torture. 

But,  intellect  not  all  gone,  though  hourly  dying  heavily  down 
to  the  level  of  the  brute,  yet  schemes  for  delivery  and  escape. 
Let  the  plot  ripen,  and  the  heart  bound :  break  his  chain ;  set 
him  free;  send  him  forth  to  the  wilderness.  Hark,  the  whoop 
of  the  wild  men.  See  those  things  that  ape  our  species  dance 
and  gibber  round  the  famishing,  hunted  wretch.  Hark  how 
he  shrieks  at  the  torture!  How  they  tear,  and  they  pinch, 
and  they  burn,  and  they  rend  him!  They,  too,  spare  his 
life — it  is  charmed!  A  Caliban  amidst  Calibans,  they  heap 
him  with  their  burthens,  and  feed  him  on  their  offal.  Let 
him  live;  he  loved  life  for  himself,  he  has  cheated  the  gibbet; 
LET  HIM  LIVE!  Let  him  watch,  let  him  once  more  escape; 
all  naked  and  mangled,  let  him  wander  back  to  the  huts  of  his 
gang.  Lo!  where  he  kneels,  the  foul  tears  streaming  down, 
and  cries  aloud:  "I  have  broken  all  your  laws,  I  will  tell  you 
all  my  crimes ;  I  ask  but  one  sentence — hang  me  up — let  me 
die!"  And  from  the  gang  groan  many  voices:  "Hang  us  up — • 
let  us  die!"  The  overseer  turns  on  his  heel,  and  Gabriel  Var- 
ney  again  is  chained  to  the  laughing  Grave-stealer. 

You  enter  those  gates  so  jealously  guarded ;  you  pass,  with 
a  quick  beat  of  the  heart,  by  those  groups  on  the  lawn,  though 
they  are  harmless;  you  follow  your  guide  through  those  pas- 
sages; where  the  open  doors  will  permit,  you  see  the  emperor 
brandish  his  sceptre  of  straw ;  hear  the  speculator  counting  his 
millions ;  sigh,  where  the  maiden  sits  smiling  the  return  of  her 
shipwrecked  lover,  or  gravely  shake  the  head  and  hurry  on 
where  the  fanatic  raves  his  Apocalypse  and  reigns  in  judgment 
on  the  world ;  you  pass  by  strong  grates  into  corridors  gloom- 
ier and  more  remote.  Nearer  and  nearer  you  hear  the  yell  and 
the  oath  and  blaspheming  curse ;  you  are  in  the  heart  of  the 
Mad-house,  where  they  chain  those  at  once  cureless  and  dan- 
gerous, who  have  but  sense  enough  left  them  to  smite,  and  to 
throttle,  and  to  murder.  Your  guide  opens  that  door,  massive 
as  a  wall,  you  see  (as  we,  who  narrate,  have  seen  her)  Lucretia 
Dalibard:  a  grisly,  squalid,  ferocious  mockery  of  a.  human 


382  LUCRETIA. 

being — more  appalling  and  more  fallen,  than  Dante  ever  fabled 
in  his  spectres,  than  Swift  ever  scoffed  in  his  Yahoos !  Only 
where  all  other  feature  seems  to  have  lost  its  stamp  of  human- 
ity still  burns  with  unquenchable  fever — the  red  devouring 
eye.  That  eye  never  seems  to  sleep,  or,  in  sleep,  the  lid  never 
closes  over  it.  As  you  shrink  from  its  light,  it  seems  to  you 
as  if  the  mind  that  had  lost  coherence  and  harmony  still  re- 
tained latent  and  incommunicable  consciousness  as  its  curse. 
For  days,  for  weeks,  that  awful  maniac  will  preserve  obstinate 
unbroken  silence;  but,  as  the  eye  never  closes,  so  the  hands 
never  rest:  they  open  and  grasp,  as  if  at  some  palpable  object 
on  which  they  close,  vise-like,  as  a  bird's  talons  on  its  prey ; 
sometimes  they  wander  over  that  brow,  where  the  furrows  seem 
torn  as  the  thunder  scars,  as  if  to  wipe  from  it  a  stain,  or  charm 
from  it  a  pang ;  sometimes  they  gather  up  the  hem  of  that  sor- 
did robe,  and  seem,  for  hours  together,  striving  to  rub  from  it 
a  soil.  Then  out  from  prolonged  silence,  without  cause  or 
warning,  will  ring,  peal  after  peal  (till  the  frame,  exhausted 
with  the  effort,  sinks  senseless  into  stupor)  the  frightful  laugh. 
But  speech,  intelligible  and  coherent,  those  lips  rarely  yield. 

There  are  times,  indeed,  when  the  attendants  are  persuaded 
that  her  mind  in  part  returns  to  her;  and  those  times  experi- 
ence has  taught  them  to  watch  with  peculiar  caution.  The 
crisis  evinces  itself  by  a  change  in  the  manner;  by  a  quick 
apprehension  of  all  that  is  said;  by  a  straining,  anxious  look  at 
the  dismal  walls ;  by  a  soft,  fawning  docility ;  by  murmured 
complaints  of  the  chains  that  fetter ;  and  (though,  as  we  have 
said,  but  very  rarely),  by  prayers,  that  seem  rational,  for 
greater  ease  and  freedom. 

In  the  earlier  time  of  her  dread  captivity,  perhaps,  when  it 
was  believed  at  the  asylum  that  she  was  a  patient  of  condition, 
with  friends  who  cared  for  her  state,  and  would  liberally  re- 
ward her  cure,  they,  in  those  moments,  relaxed  her  confine- 
ment, and  sought  the  gentler  remedies  their  art  employs ;  but 
then  invariably,  and,  it  was  said,  with  a  cunning  that  surpassed 
all  the  proverbial  astuteness  of  the  mad,  she  turned  this  indul- 
gence to  the  most  deadly  uses ;  she  crept  to  the  pallet  of  some 
adjacent  sufferer  weaker  than  herself,  and  the  shrieks  that 
brought  the  attendants  into  the  cell  scarcely  saved  the  in- 
tended victim  from  her  hands.  It  seemed,  in  those  imperfectly 
lucid  intervals,  as  if  the  reason  only  returned  to  guide  her  to 
destroy,  only  to  animate  the  broken  mechanism  into  the  beast 
of  prey. 

Years  have  now  passed  since  her  entrance  within   those 


LUCRETIA.  383 

walls.  He  who  placed  her  there  never  had  returned ;  he  had 
given  a  false  name ;  no  clue  to  him  was  obtained ;  the  gold  he 
had  left  was  but  the  quarter's  pay.  When  Varney  had  been 
first  apprehended,  Percival  requested  the  younger  Ardworth  to 
seek  the  forger  in  prison  and  to  question  him  as  to  Madame 
Dalibard ;  but  Varney  was  then  so  apprehensive  that,  even  if 
still  insane,  her  very  ravings  might  betray  his  share  in  her  crimes, 
01  still  more,  if  she  recovered,  that  the  remembrance  of  her 
son's  murder  would  awaken  the  repentance  and  the  confession 
of  crushed  despair,  that  the  wretch  had  judged  it  wiser  to  say 
that  his  accomplice  was  no  more;  that  her  insanity  had  already 
terminated  in  death.  The  place  of  her  confinement  thus  con- 
tinued a  secret  locked  in  his  own  breast.  Egotist  to  the  last, 
she  was  henceforth  dead  to  him — why  not  to  the  world? 
Thus  the  partner  of  her  crimes  had  cut  off  her  sole  resource, 
in  the  compassion  of  her  unconscious  kindred ;  thus  the  gates 
of  the  living  world  were  shut  to  her  evermore.  Still,  in  a  kind 
of  compassion,  or  as  an  object  of  experiment — as  a  subject  to 
be  dealt  with  unscrupulously  in  that  living  dissection-hall — her 
grim  gaolers  did  not  grudge  her  an  asylum.  But,  year  after 
year,  the  attendance  was  more  slovenly,  the  treatment  more 
harsh ;  and  strange  to  say,  while  the  features  were  scarcely 
recognizable ;  while  the  form  underwent  all  the  change  which 
the  shape  suffers  when  mind  deserts  it,  that  prodigious  vitality 
which  belonged  to  the  temperament  still  survived.  No  signs 
of  decay  are  yet  visible.  Death,  as  if  spurning  the  carcass, 
stands  inexorably  afar  off.  Baffler  of  man's  law,  thou,  too, 
hast  escaped  with  life!  Not  for  thee  is  the  sentence,  "Blood 
for  blood"  !  Thou  livest — thou  mayst  pass  the  extreme  boun- 
daries of  age.  Live  on,  to  wipe  the  blood  from  thy  robe! — 
LIVE  ON  ! 

Not  for  the  coarse  object  of  creating  an  idle  terror;  not  for 
the  shock  upon  the  nerves  and  the  thrill  of  the  grosser  interest 
which  the  narrative  of  crime  creates,  has  this  book  been  com- 
piled from  the  facts  and  materials  afforded  to  the  author. 
When  the  great  German  poet  describes,  in  not  the  least  noble 
of  his  lyrics,  the  sudden  apparition  of  some  "Monster  Fate" 
in  the  circles  of  careless  Joy,  he  assigns  to  him  who  teaches 
the  world  through  parable  or  song  the  right  to  invoke  the 
spectre.  It  is  well  to  be  awakened  at  times  from  the  easy 
commonplace  that  surrounds  our  habitual  life ;  to  cast  broad 
and  steady  and  patient  light  on  the  darker  secrets  of  the  heart ; 
on  the  vaults  and  caverns  of  the  social  state,  over  which  we 
build  the  market-place  and  the  palace.  We  recover  from  the 


384  LUCRETIA. 

dread,  and  the  awe,  and  the  half-incredulous  wonder,  to  set 
closer  watch  upon  our  inner  and  hidden  selves.  In  him  who 
cultivates  only  the  reason,  and  suffers  the  heart  and  the  spirit 
to  lie  waste  and  dead;  who  schemes,  and  constructs,  and  re- 
volves round  the  axle  of  self,  unwanned  by  the  affections,  un- 
poised  by  the  attraction  of  right,  lies  the  germ  Fate  might 
ripen  into  the  guilt  of  Olivier  Dalibard.  Let  him  who  but 
lives  through  the  senses,  spread  the  wings  of  the  fancy  in  the 
gaudy  glare  of  enjoyment  corrupted,  avid  to  seize,  and  impa- 
tient to  toil,  whose  faculties  are  curbed  but  to  the  range  of  phy- 
sical perception,  whose  very  courage  is  but  the  strength  of  the 
nerves,  who  developes  but  the  animal  as  he  stifles  the  man,  let 
him  gaze  on  the  villany  of  Varney,  and  startle  to  see  some 
magnified  shadow  of  himself  thrown  dimly  on  the  glass !  Let 
those  who,  with  powers  to  command  and  passions  to  wing  the 
powers,  would  sweep  without  scruple  from  the  aim  to  the  end, 
who,  trampling  beneath  their  footprint  of  iron  the  humanities 
that  bloom  up  in  their  path,  would  march  to  success  with  the 
proud  stride  of  the  destroyer,  hear,  in  the  laugh  of  yon  maniac 
murderess,  the  glee  of  the  fiend  they  have  wooed  to  their  own 
souls!  Guard  well,  O  Heir  of  Eternity,  the  portal  of  sin — the 
thought!  From  the  thought  to  the  deed,  the  subtler  thy 
brain,  and  the  bolder  thy  courage,  the  briefer  and  straighter 
is  the  way.  Read  these  pages  in  the  disdain  of  self-com- 
mune— they  shall  revolt  thee,  not  instruct;  read  them,  looking 
steadfastly  within,  and  how  humble  soever  the  art  of  the  narra- 
tor, the  fact  he  narrates,  like  all  history,  shall  teach  by  exam- 
ple. Every  human  Act,  good  or  ill,  is  an  Angel  to  guide  or  to 
warn;*  and  the  deeds  of  the  worst  have  messages  from 
Heaven  to  the  listening  hearts  of  the  best.  Amidst  the  glens 
in  the  Apennine,  in  the  lone  wastes  of  Calabria,  the  sign  of  the 
Cross  marks  the  spot  where  a  deed  of  violence  has  been  done; 
on  all  that  pass  by  the  road  the  symbol  has  varying  effect ; 
sometimes  it  startles  the  conscience,  sometimes  it  invokes  the 
devotion ;  the  robber  drops  the  blade,  the  priest  counts  the 
rosary.  So  is  it  with  the  record  of  crime;  and  in  the  witness 
of  Guilt,  Man  is  thrilled  with  the  whisper  of  Religion. 

*  Our  Acts  our  Angels  are — or  good  or  ill  ; 
The  fatal  shadows  that  walk  by  us  still. 

— FLETCHER. 


NOTE. 

CERTAIN  criticisms  on  "Lucretia,"  at  its  first  appearance,  having  been 
made  the  vehicle  for  remarks  of  no  common  virulence  on  the  Author's 
general  writings,  he  took  the  occasion  thus  afforded  to  him,  to  put  forth  in 
the  following  pages,  entitled,  "  A  Word  to  the  Public,"  not  only  a  vindica- 
tion of  his  own  ethical  designs,  in  his  various  fictions,  but  an  exposition  of 
the  prerogatives  of  inventive  art  in  the  selection  of  the  agencies  employed 
towards  moving  the  passions  of  pity  and  terror.  The  "  Word  to  the  Public" 
is  still  retained  as  an  appendix  to  this  romance  :  for  though  it  may  be  no 
longer  needed  as  a  defence  of  the  works  which  Time  itself  has  sufficed  to 
clear  from  the  charges  to  which  they  were  once  subjected,  it  may  still  have 
an  interest  to  the  general  reader  as  a  somewhat  elaborate  analysis  of  the  main 
causes  that  conduce  lo  emotions  legitimately  tragic.  If,  therefore,  it  have 
any  value,  it  is  less  as  the  vindication  which  an  author  makes  of  his  own 
works,  ihan  as  the  result  of  the  study  he  has  devoted  to  the  masterpieces  of 
others  ;  in  short,  as  a  ctiiical  essay,  offering  suggestions  as  to  the  grander 
uses  of  imaginative  compositions  in  the  passions  which  they  openly  sway, 
and  the  warnings  which  they  unconsciously  bequeath. 


A  WORD  TO  THE  PUBLIC; 

CONTAINING 

HINTS  TOWARDS  A  CRITICAL  ESSAY  UPON  THE  ARTISTIC 
PRINCIPLES  AND  ETHICAL  DESIGNS  OF  FICTION. 

IT  is  not  as  a  retort  to  attacks  that  I  write  these  pages.  They  are 
designed,  it  is  true,  to  remove  errors,  whether  of  wilful  misstatement,  or  hon- 
est misconception,  on  subjects  affecting  myself.  But  as  those  subjects  are 
connected  with  interests  in  literature,  very  general  and  important,  I  shall 
endeavor  to  preserve  the  dispassionate  tone  proper  to  au  inquiry  addressed 
to  the  candor  of  the  public,  and  the  consideration  of  educated  men. 

I  pass  by  all  assaults  that  may  appear  to  have  exceeded  the  due  license  of 
criticism  with  the  single  remark, — that  wherever  personal  motives  are  strong 
enough  to  violate  the  ordinary  decorum  of  literary  censure,  the  reader  must 
be  prepared  to  expect  that  they  will  suffice  to  corrupt  all  integrity  of  state- 
ment. Thus  extracts  will  be  garbled  and  misquoted,  sentences  stripped  of 
the  context  that  explains  them,  and  opinions,  which  the  writer  most  earnestly 
holds  up  to  reprobation,  and  places  in  the  lips  of-  characters  whom  he  draws 
but  lo  condemn,  be  deliberately  cited  as  the  sentiments  of  the  author  him- 
self. I  do  not  stop  lo  comment  on  artifices  like  these  ;  if,  from  no  broader 
principle  than  that  of  jusiice  to  the  author,  they  need  rebuke  or  are  capable 
of  discouragement — discouragement  and  rebuke  will  come  more  efficiently 

385 


386  A   WORD    TO    THE    PUBLIC. 

from  others  ;  nor  should  I  have  made  even  this  brief  reference  to  matters 
not  immediately  essential  to  my  argument,  if  some  temporary  injustice  to  the 
author  were  the  only  evil  such  practices  could  possibly  effect  ;  but  thus,  a 
work  the  most  innocent  can  not  only  be  represented  as  mUchievous,  but  in 
reality  rendered  so.  Let  me  forestall  the  subsequent  inquiry,  and  assume 
for  the  moment,  that  the  true  moral,  whether  of  "Eugene  Aram"  or  the 
"Children  of  Night,"  be  either  salutary  or  harmless,  and  then  let  me  sup- 
pose it  gravely  asserted  in  some  two  or  three  of  those  popular  journals  which 
penetrate  every  corner  of  society,  read  alike  by  the  educated  and  the  igno- 
rant, the  good  aud  the  bad — the  sole  vehicles  of  literary  information  to  those 
whom  it  is  most  facile  and  most  dangerous  to  mislead — that  the  author,  a 
man  of  some  social  position,  and  some  acknowledged  repute  in  letters,  lends 
all  the  weight  of  his  name  and  authority  to  the  defence  and  encouragement 
of  crime, — is  the  author  himself  the  party  most  seriously  aggrieved  ?  The 
injury  done  to  him  may  be  wholly  effaced  by  the  gradual  influence  of  the 
judicious,  and  the  tranquil  investigation  of  time  ;  but  is  it  so  easy  to  efface 
the  injury  effected  by  garbled  extracts,  and  wilful  misrepresentation,  upon 
minds  uninstructed  and  perverted,  at  which  the  book  itself,  with  its  real  les- 
sons, never  may  arrive,  and  which  only  too  readily  accept  the  sanction  that 
the  newspaper  assures  them  it  affords  ? 

So  far  as  concerns  myself,  I  am  contented  to  appeal,  from  assailants  of 
this  kind,  to  those  cultivators  of  literature  with  whom  I  may  claim  fellow- 
ship, and  to  that  Public  who,  I  trust,  have  connected  gentler  associations 
with  my  name. 

With  regard  to  those  purely  literary  faults  and  defects  which  afford  the 
fair  questions  to  criticism,  though,  some  years  since,  I  might  have  been 
tempted  to  enter  into  the  vindication  of  a  few,  at  least,  out  of  the  many 
with  which  I  have  been  charged,  I  am  not  now  disposed  to  intrude  upon  the 
public  a  defence  against  censures  morally  unimportant  and  legitimately 
made.  Good  or  bad,  my  works  have  b-.en  wriiun  with  such  care  as  I  could 
bc.sto-.v  on  them  ;  and  in  all  that  affects  their  literary  reputation  alone,  I 
willingly  leave  them  to  that  calm  and  equitable  decision  between  praise  and 
blame  which  time  only  can  pronounce. 

I  confine  myself  to  questions  of  graver  moment  than  those  which  relate 
to  the  mere  skill  or  ability  displayed  by  a  living  writer  in  the  treatment  of 
the  subjects  he  selects,  and  if  I  would  borrow  something  from  indulgence, 
it  is  only  a  certain  leniency  whenever  an  earnest  wish  to  correct  misconcep- 
tion may  render  me  tedious  in  explanation.  For  the  charges  against  me  are 
not  limited  to  a  single  work  ;  and  it  is  necessary  that  I  should  invite  an  in- 
quiry, from  the  warrantable  conclusions  of  which,  I  trust,  my  entire  vindi- 
cation will  proceed,  viz.,  into  the  recognized  principles  of  fiction,  and  the 
fair  liberty  in  the  choice  of  materials  which  it  is  the  interest,  both  of  art  and 
the  public,  to  permit  to  imaginative  writers. 

In  this  discussion  I  ask,  then,  but  for  that  patience  with  which  we  listen  to 
the  most  ordinary  mechanic,  when  at  home  in  the  subject  of  a  craft  to  which 
his  toil  and  life  have  been  applied.  For  several  years  I  have  studied  the  art 
of  which  I  treat  ;  and  it  is  but  reasonable  to  suppose  that  I  should  speak 
with  some  knowledge  of  the  principles  which,  applied  to  practice,  have  gained 
me  whatever  reputation  I  possess.  I  will  presume  that  the  reader  enters  on 
the  consideration  of  the  matters  which  he  is  called  upon  to  adjudicate,  not 
with  a  mind  steeled  against  conviction,  and  determined  to  resist,  but  ra'her 
with  a  juryman's  sincere  desire  to  judge  for  himself,  and  exclude  from  the 
trial  all  that  he  has  heard  out  of  court ;  regretting  generously  if,  at  the  close, 
he  is  obliged  to  condemn,  rejoicing  honestly  if  his  reason  and  his  con- 


A   WORD     TO     THE    PUBLIC.  387 

science  allow  him  to  acquit.  And  if  there  be  many  who  come  to  this  inquiry 
with  minds  so  prepared,  amongst  them  there  may  be  those  who  unthinkingly 
have  done  me  wrong,  and  who,  after  hearing  the  evidence  I  shall  adduce, 
and  more  carefully  considering  the  laws  by  which  I  should  be  judged,  may 
depart  from  the  heating  with  a  manly  desire  to  repair  an  injury — small  in- 
deed, if  it  were  as  lightly  felt  as  it  is  heedlessly  inflicted  ! 

It  is  nol  so  easy  as  at  first  it  may  appear,  to  decide  upon  the  moral  tenden- 
cies and  designs  of  a  wri;er.  Upon  no  conceivable  subject  have  more  signal 
mistakes  been  made  ;  and  none  affords  us  a  more  memorable  warning  to  judge 
of  others  with  modest  charity  and  cautious  deliberation.  It  would  take  a 
large  catalogue  to  contain  the  titles  of  those  books  which  have  been  de- 
nounced as  immoral  and  mischievous,  and  which  are  now  universally 
acknowledged  as  the  sources  of  harmless  pleasure  or  ethical  instruction. 
From  the  father  of  poetry,  from  Homer  himself — who  has  been  charged 
"wiih  degrading  the  gods,  and  demoralizing  man,"  "sanctioning  perjury 
and  avarice,"  "  holding  up  even  parricides  to  reverence,"  "  leaching  what  is 
wicked,  and  debasing  what  is  good," — through  the  long  order  of  his  illustrious 
children,  we  can  find  few  whom  we  now  recognize  amongst  our  most  genial 
civilizers,  and  our  gentlest  teachers,  who  have  not,  at  one  time  or  another, 
been  subjected  to  the  common  charge  of  immoral  tendency  and  pernicious 
effect. 

Since  the  good  Bishop  Heliodorus  saw  his  tale  of  "  Theagenes  and 
Chariclea"  condemned  by  a  synod,  as  prejudicial  to  the  young  ;  since  Ma- 
homet denounced  in  the  Koran  those  harmless  tales,  of  which  the  "  Arabian 
Nights  "  are  a  sample,  novelists  have  been  treated,  if  possible,  more  harshly 
than  their  elder  brothers  the  poets.  There  is  no  novel  we  more  willingly 
give  to  the  schoolboy  than  "  Don  Quixote,"  yet  Cervantes  has  been  driven 
to  find  in  Sismondi  a  defence  "  against  those  who  consider  '  Don  Quixote  ' 
the  most  melancholy  book  ever  written,"  and  (adds  Mr.  Hal'am)  "who  no 
doubt  consider  it  also  as  one  of  the  most  immoral,  as  chilling  and  pernicious 
in  its  influence  on  the  social  converse  of  mankind,  as  'The  Prince 'of 
Machiavel  is  in  their  political  intercourse."  *  There  is  no  tale  that  with 
safer  conscience  we  submit  to  the  simplest  understanding  than  the  "  Ras- 
selas  "  of  Dr.  Johnson,  and  yet  it  has  been  charged  with  instilling  the  same, 
more  than  doubtful,  moral  that  freezes  men's  hopes  in  the  mockery  of 
"  Candide."  f  Philosophers  the  most  earnest,  moralists  the  most  rigid,  have 
been  as  liable  to  this  erring  accusation,  as  the  wildest  of  poets  and  the  most 
careless  of  romancers.  Locke  presides  over  our  academies,  yet  he  has  been 
denounced  r,s  the  founder  of  a  sect  of  materialists.  Cudwotth  is  received 
amongst  the  holiest  champions  of  religion,  yet  Warbmton  informs  us  that 
he  never  published  the  second  part  of  his  work  because  of  the  malignity  that 
had  visited  the  first.  In  the  same  painful  and  warning  mistake  of  shallow 
judgments,  our  divines  themselves  have  been  assailed,  and  the  twin  Mghts 
of  our  religious  literature,  Tillotson  and  Taylor,  calumniated — the  one  as  a 
Socinian  in  disguise,  the  other  as  a  schismatic  in  design. 

Time  brings  justice  at  the  end.  and  vindicates  the  name  if  it  prese-ves  the 
work.  Happy  he,  whose  justification  comes  before  the  hand  has  forgot 
its  cunning,  and  the  tomb  shut  out  the  sweets  of  the  atonement  from  the 
bitterness  of  the  wrong  !  Happy  he,  too,  who,  early  inured  to  calumny, 
grows  indifferent  to  its  sting  !  He  will  not,  at  least,  die  a  lunatic,  like 

*  Hallam's  History  of  Literature,  vol.  iii.,  p.  156. 

t  Voltaire  congratulated  himself,  indeed,  that  "Candide"  had  appeared  before  "Ras- 
selas,"  so  that  the  scoffing  wit  might  not  be  accused  of  plagiarizing  his  moral  from  our 
serious  and  sturdy  Doctor. 


A    WORD    TO    THE    PUBLIC. 

Ritson,  "  stabbed  by  assassins  in  the  dark,"  nor  like  Cummyne,  waste  away 
"  in  the  slow  fever  produced  by  an  anonymous  assault."  * 

Do  not  let  me  be  suspected  of  so  egregious  a  conceit  as  implying  a  claim 
to  association  with  the  lofty  names  that  I  have  cited.  I  but  use  the  argu- 
ment the  citations  suggest,  to  establish  the  simple  truth  which  literary  history 
affords  to  a  more  intelligent,  and,  I  trust,  a  more  liberal  age,  viz.,  that  the 
public  should  receive  with  great  caution  rash  accusations  against  the  motives 
of  authors  and  the  latent  immorality  of  works.  For  easy  to  the  lowest  un- 
derstanding is  this  general  charge  of  immoral  tendency  and  object,  and 
tempting  it  is  to  malice,  when  it  cannot  deny  the  literary  reputation  which  it 
envies,  to  assail  the  moral  design,  because  that  (always  more  or  less  compli- 
cated) needs  some  effort  beyond  the  commonplace  indifference  of  the  public 
to  perceive  and  to  defend.  Of  whatever  is  plainly  obscene  and  licentious  ; 
of  whatever  openly  assails  the  acknowledged  principles  of  religion,  or  saps 
the  moral  foundations  of  society,  all  men  may  judge  ;  and  on  these,  at  least 
in  our  own  age,  no  differences  of  opinion  are  likely  to  exist.  But  the  wise 
and  the  honest  will  be  wary  of  ascribing  to  writers  secret  tendencies  and 
objects  at  variance,  not  only  with  the  designs  they  announce,  but  the  repu- 
tation accorded  to  them  by  judges,  whether  at  home  or  abroad,  uninfluenced 
by  personal  predilections,  or  political  bias.  And  I  fear  that  the  writer  the 
most  really  dangerous  to  society  is  to  be  found  in  the  critic  who  bids  the 
young  and  unthinking  search,  amidst  the  most  popular  forms  of  literature, 
for  excuses  to  vice  and  sanctions  to  crime,  which  the  author  himself  never 
intended,  and  which,  without  such  directions,  no  reader  would  have  sus- 
pected. It  is  critics  like  these  who  would  pervert  to  poison  the  most  inno- 
cent intellectual  nutriment ;  who  would  interpret  the  exhortations  of  St. 
Augustine  into  an  appeal  to  the  passions,  or  the  "  Whole  Duty  of  Man  "  into 
a  libel  on  one's  neighbor.  Shortly  after  Addison's  "Cato"  had  appeared 
upon  the  stage,  an  unhappy  person  destroyed  himself,  leaving  upon  his  table 
a  paper  with  these  words  : 

"  That  must  be  good 
Which  Cato  did  and  Addison  approved." 

One  must  mournfully  regret  this  poor  man's  perverse  misconstruction  of 
"  Cato,"  yet  who  can  say,  for  that  reason,  that  "  Cato  "  is  dangerous,  or  that 
Addison  sanctioned  suicide  ?  But  suppose  that  Addison  had  lived,  and 
"  Cato  "  been  produced,  in  our  day,  and  suppose  that  some  writer  in  one  of 
our  popular  journals  had,  after  some  prelude  upon  "  morbid  idiosyncrasies 
and  the  frequency  of  suicides."  instead  of  removing  from  such  "  morbid 
idiosyncrasies "  the  dangerous  impression  that  Addison  approved  self - 
slaughter,  preferred  rather  to  gratify  a  spleen  against  the  poet,  in  asserting 
that  the  design  of  the  tragedy  and  the  purpose  of  the  author  were  devoted  to 
the  mischievous  vindication  of  suicide  ;  would  not  that  writer  have  incurred 
the  gravest  responsibilities,  afforded  to  "  morbid  idiosyncrasies "  the  very 
stimulus  it  was  his  duty  to  withhold,  and  encouraged  the  very  error  it  was 
his  duty  to  expose  ?  Let  the  editor  of  every  influential  journal  weigh  well 
the  considerations  this  reflection  should  suggest,  and  perhaps  he  may  confess 
that  the  more  readily  an  author's  intention  may  be  misconceived  by  sickly  or 
ignorant  minds,  the  more  the  popular  reviewer,  whose  opportunities  give  him 
the  quickest  and  readiest  facility  towards  correcting  such  mistake,  should 
seek  not  to  confirm  but  dispel  the  dangerous  misconception. 

It  is  not  given  to  all  to  have  genius  :  it  is  given  to  all  to  have  hpoesty 
of  purpose  ;  an  ordinary  writer  may  have  this  in  common  with  the  greatest — 

*  DISRAELI,  "  Curiosities  of  Literature." 


A    WORD     TO     THE    PUBLIC.  389 

that  he  may  compose  his  works  with  sincere  and  distinct  views  of  promoting 
liuth  and  administering  to  knowledge.  I  claim  this  intention  fearlessly  for 
myself.  And  if,  contrary  to  my  must  solemn  wishes,  and  my  must  thoughtful 
designs,  any  one  of  my  writings  can  be  shown  by  dispassionate  argument  to 
convey  lessons  tending  to  pervert  the  understanding,  and  confound  the 
eternal  distinction  between  right  and  wrong,  I  will  do  my  best  to  correct  the 
error,  by  stamping  on  it  my  own  condemnation,  and  omitting  it  from  the  Hat 
of  those  it  does  not  shame  me  to  acknowledge. 

Eveiy  reader  who  has  honored  my  books  with  some  attention  must  long 
since  have  recognized  in  their  very  imperfections  as  works  of  art,  the  favorite 
and  peculiar  studies  of  their  author;  some,  especially,  of  the  companions  of  my 
youth  must  often  have  traced  to  those  inquiries,  which  we  pursued  together 
through  the  labyrinth  of  metaphysics,  and  amidst  the  ingenious  speculations 
of  writers  who  have  sought  by  the  analysis  of  our  ideas  to  arrive  at  Ihe  springs 
of  our  manifold  varieties  in  conduct,  that  over-indulgence  of  moralizing 
deductions,  and  those  often  tedious  attempts  to  explain  the  workings  of 
mil  d,  which  have  weakened  the  effect  of  my  characters,  and  interrupted 
the  progress  of  my  plots.  But  no  man  can  have  made  the  study  of  the  great 
investigators  of  human  conduct  his  passion  and  his  habit,  and  ever  conscious 
and  wilfully  meditate  a  work  at  variance  with  morality  ;  more  likely  is 
is  that  he  will  err  in  the  opposite  extreme,  and  undertake  no  work,  however 
light,  without  a  purpose  too  sharply  definite.  Even  in  the  object  on  which  he 
is  most  intent,  it  is  true  that  he  may  err — the  gravest  moralists,  the  wisest 
divines,  have  so  erred  ;  human  judgment  cannot  be  infallible  ; 

"  Tacere 
Tutum  semper  erit." 

"  If  one  would  be  safe,  one  has  no  resource  but  to  be  silent."  But  an  error 
of  this  kind  is  one  only  of  mistaken,  yet  honest,  intention,  and  may  surely  be 
exposed,  without  heated  invectives  and  calumnious  personalities. 

What  is  the  charge  that  has  been  brought  against  me — urged  and  re-urged, 
in  words  which  I  will  not  trust  myself  to  repeat,  and  in  a  spiiit  which  I  will 
not  pause  to  expose?  I  state  its  broad  substance,  I  believe,  fail ly  in  this: 

'  That  I  have  had  a  morbid  and  mischievous  passion  for  treating  of  crime 
and  guilt ;  that  it  is  the  prevailing  character  of  my  books  to  make  heroes  of 
criminals  and  felons." 

J$nw  it  jg  thp outerest  of  all  writers,  from  the  greatest  poet  to  the  meanest 
novili.-t,  that  the  due  licence  of  fiction  in. the  rn.iti.ri;. Is  it  selects  should  lie 
ch  a  i  lxJaiil.do.wn  and  j.'.<-iui  .!ly  admitted.  And  it  is  no  less  to  the  interest 
of  the  public  that  writers  should  not  be  scared,  by  tacit  acquiescence  in 
charges  most  painful  to  honorable  men,  from  whatever  exposition  of  evil  as 
it  exists — whatever  investigation  of  the  human  mind,  in  its  sublimity  or  its 
baseness,  its  virtues  or  its  guilt,  the  uniform  example  of  received  authori- 
ties in  literature  has  proved  it  to  be  salutary  or  safe  to  permit  to  the  scope  of 
the  poet,  and  the  purpose  of  the  teacher. 

I  shall  p-oceed  to  show  that,  if  the  delineation  of  crime  did  afford  the 
ordinary  and  favorite  subject  of  my  works  ;  if  criminals  or  felons  were  made 
what  is  called  the  heroes  (that  is,  the  leading  characters)  in  all  or  most  of 
them— such  a  charge  would  only  prove  the  ignorance  of  those  who  advance 
it,  whether  of  the  most  acknowledged  privileges  of  fiction,  or  the  scope  of 
the  moral  which  writers  the  most  blameless  have  been  left  at  liberty  to  de- 
velop and  enforce.  But  the  charge  itself  is  so  utterly  untrue,  that  a  single 
glance  over  the  list  of  my  publications  will  suffice  to  refute  it.  I  annex  that 
list  as  my  reply  ; 


39°  A    WORD     TO     THE     PUBLIC. 

"  Pelham  "  ;  "  The  Disowned  "  ;  "  Devereux  "  ;  "  Godolphin  "  ;  *  "  Paul 
Clifford  "  ;  "  The  Pilgrims  of  the  Rhine  "  ;  *  "Eugene  Aram  "  ;  "  The  Last 
Days  of  Pompeii"  ;  "Rienzi";  "The  Conquest  of  Grenada"  ;  "Ernest 
Maltravers,  first  part"  ;  "  Ernest  Maltravers,  second  part ;  (first  printed  as 
Alice  "  ;  "  Night  and  Morning  "  ;  "  Zanoni  "  ;  "  The  Last  of  the  Barons  "  ; 
*"  Lucretia." 

So  that  out  of  a  list  of  sixteen  works  of  fiction  (besides  five  Plays),  the  es- 
says called  "  England  and  the  English,"  and  "  The  Student,"  a  History  of 
Athens  (and  a  volume  or  two  of  poems  *),  the  three  to  which  I  have^  prefixed 
an  asterisk  are  the  only  books  in  which  felons  or  criminals  have  been  made 
the  heroes.  In  works  professing  to  treat  of  human  life  in  all  its  complexi- 
ties, this  is  surely  but  a  small  proportion  assigned  to  the  express  delineation 
of  human  crimes.  And  this  list  alone,  to  those  who  have  read  the  works,  is 
a  sufficient  answer  to  the  charge  that  it  has  been  my  habit  as  an  author  to 
select  criminals  and  felons  as  my  heroes.  Five  of  the  fictions  I  have  cited 
are  devoted  to  the  historical  illustration  of  former  times,  with  whatever 
images,  fair  or  noble,  the  age  might  afford,  or  the  progress  of  the  narrative 
present ;  six  to  those  circles  of  modern  society,  in  which  it  was  difficult  to 
avoid  the  opposite  reproach  of  dealing  exclusively  with  the  more  polished  or 
more  frivolous  classes,  and  forgetting  that  beneath  the  surface  of  manners 
grave  and  stern  lessons  are  to  be  found — yes,  even  in  the  guilt  and  the  woe, 
which  are  at  work  within  the  deeps  ;  and  two  out  of  the  number  (''Zanoni" 
and  ''  The  Pilgrims  of  the  Rhine'')  are  dedicated  to  fancies  which  maybe 
called,  if  you  please,  too  visionary  and  unreal,  but  are  wholly  remote  from  that 
grosser  and  more  actual  world  of  evil  and  sin,  to  which  I  am  accused  of  hav- 
ing morbidly  confined  my  intention,  or  monotonously  directed  my  research. 

In  each  and  all  of  these,  no  doubt,  there  are  (could  they  paint  life  without, 
or  has  any  novel's!  attempted  to  do  so?)  characters  good  and  bad.  But  in 
none  of  my  books  (save  the  three  before  mentioned)  has  crime  been  made 
the  leading  agency,  or  a  criminal  the  predominant  character.  In  most  of 
them,  indeed,  the  fairer  and  gentler  side  of  human  nature  has  been  not  un- 
favorably exhibited  ;  in  most  of  them,  I  believe,  the  characters  that  remain 
the  more  vividly  clear  in  the  remembrance  of  an  impartial  reader  will  be  as- 
sociated with  such  qualities  as  dignify  or  endear  our  species. 

To  only  three  fictions  out  of  sixteen,  then,  does  the  charge  so  indiscrimi- 
mtely  made  against  all,  shrink  in  its  application  ;  viz.,  that  "  I  have  sought 
materials  in  crime,  and  heroes  in  criminals."  We  come,  then,  at  once  to  a 
question  which  common-ten^e  and  universal  authority  ought  long  since  to 
have  decit'ed,  viz.,  "  How  far  the  delineation  of  crime  is  a  legitimate  object 
of  fictitious  composition." 

It  would  seem  from  the  hackneyed  repetition  of  the  same  accusation 
against  me,  and  the  vehemence  with  which  it  is  accompanied,  that  I  had  had 
the  discredit  to  introduce  into  fiction  some  hideous  innovation,  opposed  by 
the  greatest  writers  or  at  variance  with  the  usual  privileges  of  my  calling. 
But  what  is  the  fact  ?  Has  not  the  delineation  of  crime,  in  every  age,  been 
the  more  especial  and  chosen  thesis  of  the  greatest  masters  of  art  quoted  to 
us  as  authorities  and  held  up  to  us  as  models  ?  The  parricide  of  CEdipus 
furnishes  inspiration  to  the  all-perfect  and  all-polished  genius  of  Sophocles  ; 
Medea  murders  her  children;  Clytemnestra  her  husband,  Orestes  his  mother  ; 
Phaedra  woos  her  step-son.  I  grant  all  that  may  be  said  as  to  differences  of 

*  Including  a  translation  of  Schiller,  to  which  I  could  have  had  n»  reasonable  induce- 
ment to  devote  the  liborof  more  than  two  years,  except  that  of  rendering  more  familiar  to  my 
countrymen  a  collection  of  Pr>:-,  is,  universally  considered  to  create,  upon  the  whole,  morel 
impressions  peculiarly  pure  and.  elevating, 


A    WORD     TO     THE     PUBLIC.  39! 

ancient  manners  nnd  habits  of  thought  ;  but  these  very  same  subjects  have 
been  readapted  to  the  modern  stage,  adorned  by  the  greatest  geniuses  of 
France,  in  an  age  when  she  especially  prided  herself  on  the  purity  of  her 
drama  and  the  humanity  of  her  audiences.  They  are  enrolled  amongst  the 
masterpieces  of  Racine,  Corneille,  and  Voltaire.  They  are  incorporated  with 
the  drama  of  Italy.  In  England  they  furnish  plots  to  the  authors  who  were 
Hs'cned  to  as  Reformers  of  the  stage  from  its  ruder  barbarities  and  grosser 
license. 

Turn  to  the  titles  in  the  earlier  edition  of  Shakespeare's  plays,  and  they 
even  seem  to  invite  attention  by  the  promise  of  the  crimes  they  are  to  depict. 
What  are  we  to  say  of  the 

"  Tragedie  of  Kynge  Richard,  conteyninge  his  treacherous  plots  against 
his  brother  Clarence,  and  the  murther  of  his  innocent  nephewes  in  the 
Tower  ;  wyth  tlie  whole  course  of  his  detested  life  "  ?  Or  of 

"  Hamlet,  Prince  of  Denrnarke,  wyth  his  just  revenge  on  the  adulterous 
Kynge  Claudius,  and  the  poysoning  of  the  Queen  Gertrude''? 

Or,  "  The  Tragedie  of  Macbeth,  showing  how,  by  treachery  and  many- 
fold  murders,  he  obtained  the  crown  of  Scotland  "  ? 

Or,  "  Othello,  the  Moore  of  Venice,  his  deathe  and  strangling  the  fair 
Desdemona  "  ?  * 

I  attach  no  weight  to  these  titles  themselves,  of  which  Shakespeare  is 
doubtless  innocent  ;  but  they  certainly  do  not  exaggerate  the  crimes  which 
the  plays  depict.  Crime  in  fact,  is  the  essential  material  of  the  Tragic 
Piaiua.  Take  crime  from  tragedy,  and  you  a:mihila'e  tragedy  itself. 
Whatever  aims  at  the  tragic  effect,  whether  on  the  stage  or  in  more  sober 
narrative,  cannot  dispense  with  the  evil  which  works  to  mischief,  excites  to 
teiror,  involves  the  innocent  in  its  own  ruin,  and  conduces  to  the  tragic  pas- 
slOns  of  our  pity  and  our  awe  f  You  may  say  at  once,  and  literally,  of 
nearly  all  tragic  writers,  "that  they  have  sought  in  crimes  their  materials, 
and  in  criminals  their  heroes." 

Mr.  Burke  has  probably  in  much  accounted  for  this  sombre  selection  of 
character  and  subject,  in  those  remarks,  not  the  least  subtle  and  profound, 
in  his  memorable  treatise,  wherein  he  demonstrates  that,  as  power  is  a  source 
of  the  sublime,  so  power  to  be  sublime  must  be  suggestive  of  terror,  and 
associated  with  attributes  of  destruction. 

"  Whatever,"  he  says,  "is  fitied  in  any  sort  to  excite  the  ideas  of  pain  or 

*  To  say  nothing  of  "  Titus  Andronicus,"  which  is,  probably,  not  Shakespeare's,  or  his 
only  in  part,  but  which  we  admit  into  our  collections  with  no  fear  of  demoralizing  weak 
minds,  or  poisoning  the  purity  of  youth  by  the  successions  of  crimes  and  atrocities,  mur- 
ders, rapes — amputating  hands,  plucking  forth  tongues,  hewing  off  heads,  stabbing  with  a 
joke  of  "  Weke,  weke,  so  cries  a  pig,"  cutting  throats  on  the  stage,  while  Lavinialjetween 
her  stumps  holds  a  bason  for  the  blood,  serving  up  to  a  mother  her  children  baked  in  a  pie, 
etc.,  etc.  Why  is  not  this  play  (no  matter  whose  it  be)  to  be  banished  from  our  collections? 
Because,  here,  time  has  brought  healthful  discernment ;  because,  whatever  the  defective 
art  which  introduces  such  gratuitous  horrors  in  "  Titus  Andronicus,"  every  one  knows  that 
they  do  not  contaminate  the  moral  sense  ;  the  image  of  crime,  made  execrable,  may  pain 
and  revolt  us,  butybr  that  very  reason  it  does  not  allure  or  corrupt. 

t  Nothing  can  be  more  unsatisfactory  than  all  definitions  which  have  sought  to  limit  the 
author's  liberty  of  selection  from  criminal  agencies  and  instruments.  "  The  only  circum- 
stance," says  one  critic,  "  which  elevates  the  crime  into  a  subject  for  the  poet  or  the 
dramatist,  is  the  influence  under  which  it  is  committed,  the  object  which  it  is  to  attain,  the 
nature  of  the  impelling  necessities  which  lead  to  it, — when  these  spring  from  causes  not 
base  or  ignoble  in  themselves,  when  they  come,  for  instance,  from  a  combination  of  wrong 
not  otherwise  to  be  redressed,  murder  becomes  a  poetic  subject  ;  it  is  that  which  is  dignified 
as  a  '  tragedy  '  and  distinguished  from  mere  felony."  Words,  signifying  nothing  !t  The 
crimes  of  lago  are  base  and  ignoble  in  themselves  ;  they  come  from  "  no  combination  of 
wrong  not  otherwise  to  be  redressed";  neither  do  those  of  Richard  III.,  nor  those  of 
Phaedra,  of  Clytemnestra,  of  the  daughters  of  Lear,  and  the  mother  of  Hamlet,  and  the 
wife  of  Macbeth, 


392 


A    WORD     TO     THE    PUBLIC. 


' 


danger  ;  that  is  to  say,  whatever  is  in  any  sort  terrible,  or  is  conveisant  about 
terrible  objects,  or  operates  in  a  manner  analogous  to  terror,  is  a  source  of 
the  sublime."  * 

Again,  ' '  that  power  derives  all  its  sublimity  from  the  terror  with  which  it 
is  generally  accompanied,  will  appear  evidently,  from  its  effect  in  a  very  few 
cases  in  which  it  may  be  possible  to  strip  a  considerable  degree  of  strength 
of  its  power  to  hurt  ;  when  you  do  this,  you  spoil  it  of  everything  sublime, 
and  it  immediately  becomes  contemptible."  He  proceeds  to  compare  the 
ox,  strong  but  innocent,  and  therefore  the  idea  of  which  is  not  grand,  with 
the  bull,  which,  precisely  because  its  strength  is  often  destructive,  has  fre- 
quently a  place  in  sublime  description.  "  We  have  continually  about  us 
animals  of  a  strength  that  is  considerable,  but  not  pernicious  ;  amongst 
these  we  never  look  for  the  sublime.  It  comes  upon  us  in  the  gloomy  forest 
and  in  the  howling  wilderness  :  in  the  forms  of  the  lion,  the  tiger:  the  panther, 
or  rhinoceros."  f 

Without  absolutely  going  to  the  extreme  of  the  principle  this  eminent 

thinker  has  enforced,  or  asserting    that  strength,  to  be  sublime,  must  be 

necessarily  pernicious;  it  is  undeniable,  at  least,  that  the  association  of  power 

with  destruction  is  one  of  the  most  obvious  sources  of  the  sublime.     And,  as 

guilt  in  M.an,  when  accompanied  with  intellect  or  daring,  contains  a  power 

I  infinitely  exceeding  the  brute  force  of  the  mere  animal,  so  crime  is  the  cus- 

;  tomary  material  for  tragic  art,  and  furnishes  the  tremendous  instrument  for 

moving  the  human  heart  by  the  agency  of  terror. 

:,  Other  reasons  might  be  adduced  to  show  why  crime  has  been  made  an 
essential  element  on  the  stage  ;  how  it  has  afforded  to  the  master  of  human 
nature  his  amplest  scope  for  investigating  the  most  subtle  and  hidden 
recesses  of  character  and  passion,  unravelling  the  skein  of  intellectual  error, 
and  holding  up  to  a  thoughtless  world  those  striking  and  solemn  warnings  in 
which  the  more  direct  morality  of  tragic  composition  may  be  said  to  consist. 
Perhaps  the  old  Greek  Platonist  who  eloquently  defended  Homer  from  the 
accusations  of  his  master  has  made  some  remarks  on  this  part  of  our  subject 
not  unworthy  of  attention. 

"It  appears  to  me,"  he  says,  "that  whatever  is  tragical,  monstrous,  and 
out  of  the  common  course  of  nature  in  poetical  fictions,  excites  the  hearers  in 
all  imaginable  ways  to  the  investigation  of  the  truth,  attracts  us  to  recondite 
knowledge,  and  does  not  suffer  us  through  apparent  probability  to  rest  satis- 
fied with  superficial  conceptions,  but  compels  us  to  penetrate  into  the  interior 
parts  of  fables,  to  explore  the  obscure  intention  of  their  authors,"  etc.  \ 

Enough,  then,  has  been  said  to  show  that  crime  is  an  admitted  and 
necessary  element  of  tragic  fiction,  an  agency  employed  by  the  greatest  poets, 
and  to  be  vindicated  by  the  plainest  principles  of  their  art  ;  and  so  popularly 
is  this  understood,  that  tJie  very  statue  of  the  7"ragic  Muse  is  represented  with 
the  dagger  in  one  hand,  the  poison  bowl  in  the  other. 

But  then  it  is  implied,  if  not  openly  contended,  that,  though  the  presen- 
tation cf  crime  is  allowable  on  the  stage,  it  is  to  be  condemned,  in  a  novel. 
Much  is  said  about  the  "  weak  minds  of  circulating  library  readers,"  "  the 
young  "  and  "  impressionable,"  etc.  As  if  there  were  no  weak  minds  in  the 

*  Burke  on  the  "  Sublime  and  Beautiful,"  part  i.,  sec.  vii. 

t  Ib.  part  ii.,  sec.  v. 

%  Taylor's  translation  of  Proclus  in  the  "  Apology  for  the  Fables  of  Homer."  I  prefer 
adopting  his  translation,  though  not  so  forcible  as  I  could  wish,  to  any  attempt  of  my  own. 
1  have  taken,  however,  the  liberty  of  substituting  for  the  word  "unnatural"  the  para- 
phrase, "  out  of  the  (foramon  course  of  nature,"  which  is  certainly  the  (rue  meaning  of 
Proclus, 


A  WORD   TO   THE   PUBLIC.  393 

pit  and  the  gallery  of  Drury  Lane  ;  as  if  only  sages  and  stoics  were  to  be 
found  in  the  boxes  ;  as  if  a  dramatic  audience  were  not,  upon  the  whole,  a 
fur  more  miscellaneous  class  than  that  of  subsciibeis  to  a  circulating  library, 
comprehending  far  lower  degrees  of  instruction,  and  a  more  general  admix- 
ture, both  of  rank  and  of  age  ;  *  as  if,  too,  after  all,  literature  were  a  kind 
of  medicated  farina,  to  be  adapted  with  the  daintiest  nicety  to  the  digestion 
of  the  weakly  and  diseased  ;  as  if  any  man  of  education  and  vigor,  no  matter 
whether  he  write  a  novel  or  a  history,  must  not  take  it  for  granted,  that  he 
addresses  readers  of  ordinary  understanding  and  healthful  comprehension  ! 
Is  there,  in  fact,  a  book  in  the  world  that  could  ever  have  established  a  fame 
if  it  had  not  mainly  addressed  itself  to  strong  heads  and  clear  intellects  ? 
Much,  too,  is  said  of  the  example  of  former  novelists,  who  were  contented 


with  exhibiting  manners,  and  ridiculing  folly,  as  if  all  prose  fiction  were  to  be 
end  were  forbidden  to  the  compositions  of  fiction,  because  they  are  divided 


narrowed  into  a  single  classification,  or  as  if  all  grave  purpose  and  tiagic 


into  chapters,  not  compressed  into  acts  !  What  is  the  fair  source  of  terror  in 
one  composition  may  be  as  readily  resorted  to  in  another.  What  is  free  to 
the  imagination,  if  put  into  five  acts,  does  not  become  reprehensible,  if  em- 
ployed in  three  volumes.  Each^-tb»-Hafi'ative  of"ttreidy«uaat  is  bound  but  by 
its  own  peculiar  modes  of  relation  or  expression.  And  since,  whatever  our 
varieties  of  appeal  to  the  passions,  all  are  traceable  to  springs  in  the  human 
mind,  to  which  all  who  treat  of  the  passions  must  apply,  the  narrator  is  not 
only  privileged,  but  absolutely  constrained,  to  come  to  the  same  sources  as 
the  writer  for  the  stage.  Pause  to  consider  how  moral  terror  in  tragic  com- 
position is  obtained.  The  more  you  examine,  the  more  you  will  find  that 
moral  f  terror  is  never  excited  except  by  images  of  evil  or  punishment,  by 
some  destroying  or  dangerous  agency.  Look  a  little  deeper,  and  you  will 
find  that  there  are  only  two  kinds  of  this  agency  —  the  first,  supernatural, 
such  as  Fate,  a  ghost,  a  witch,  a  fiend,  an  oracle,  etc.,  in  which  the  images 
from  another  world  are  summoned  to  exercise  evil  influence  over  this  ;  the 
second  agency  is  human  crime.  Search,  I  say,  all  tragedies,  all  fictions,  and 
you  will  find  that  moral  terror  is  never  produced,  but  by  some  evil  or 
destroying  power,  and  that  that  power  is  never  to  be  found,  except  in  the 
two  agencies  I  have  named,  viz.,  the  supernatural  or  the  criminal.  Grant, 
then,  what  you  cannot  deny,  that  the  narrator  is  in  the  exercise  of  his  un- 
doubted right  to  attempt,  if  he  can,  to  create  the  passion  of  terror,  and  you 
are  compelled  to  grant  him  the  only  means  by  which  he  can  effect  his  ob- 
ject, viz.,  the  supernatural  or  the  criminal.  This  is  so  evident  a  truth,  that 
it  would  be  unnecessary  to  say  a  word  further  on  the  subject,  if  it  were  not  that 
the  public  are  less  familiarized  to  representations  of  guilt  in  the  narrative 
fiction,  than  they  are  in  the  dramatic  ;  and  hence  the  comparative  unfamil- 
iarity  has  given  a  readier  reception  to  shallow  criticism  of  the  romance,  than 
common-sense  and  daily  custom  would  permit  to  be  applied  to  the  drama. 
But  this  only  proves  what  is  undeniable,  viz.,  that  the  tragic  prose  romance 
is  of  very  recent  date  in  literature,  and  has  hitherto  been  sparingly  culti- 
vated. 1  believe  that  Richardson's  "  Clarissa  Harlowe  "  was  the  first  prose 
fiction,  attaining  permanent  celebrity,  that  resorted  for  interest  to  the  ele- 

*  These  poor  circulating  library  readers  are  a  little  too  superciliously  treated.  Say  what 
we  like  about  them,  they  still  form  the  ordinary  mass  of  the  reading  public,  and  compre- 
hend all  its  varieties  of  intclle*  <.  and  instruction.  They  certainly  cannot  be  said  to  exclude 
the  refined  and  scholastic  few,  while  they  as  certainly  do  not  embrace  the  lowest  orders  in 
mental  cultivation. 


1  1  say  moral  terror,  though  even  the  physical  terror  caused  by  representations  of  bodily 
ain  and  danger  can  scarcely  be   artistic 
cither  in  those  who  endure,  or  Miose  who  i 


, 

pain  and  danger  can  scarcely  be   artistically  produced,  without  tracing  it  to   moral   evil, 

inflict  it. 


394  A    WORD     TO     THE    PUBLIC. 

ments  of  tragedy.  I  need  not  say  that  the  plot  of  that  work  is  founded  o» 
the  progress  and  perpetration  of  a  crime  equally  odious  and  base,  conducted 
through  scenes,  abetted  by  characters,  and  consummated  by  means  which 
the  public  would  probably  not  permit  to  a  writer  in  the  present  day.  Yet 
of  Richardson  our  great  moralist  could  say  with  truth  "  that  he  taught  the 
passions  to  move  at  the  command  of  Virtue."  The  next  tragic  fiction  that 
won  fame  from  the  public  was  the  "Julia  de  Roubigne"  of  the  gentle- 
hearted  Mackenzie.  It  closes  in  murder  and  suicide  ;  and  those  who  would 
fly  at  higher  game  than  the  living,  may  find,  perhaps,  something  to  say 
against  the  dead  great  author,  who  holds  up  as  the  ideal  of  chivalrous 
honor — high,  though  erring — the  jealous  assassin,  who  poisons  his  wife,  and 
escapes  by  self-slaughter  the  penalties  and  shame  of  his  deed.  Yet  who, 
amongst  the  true  judges  of  literature,  would  deny  to  Mackenzie  the  praise 
he  deserves  as  a  writer  of  the  purest  intentions,  and  the  mildest  humanity  ? 
Not  long  after  this,  with  some  tragic  purpose  (though  I  do  not  include  it 
amongst  the  fictions  that  we  recognize  as  critically  tragic),  came  the  "  Ze- 
luco  "  of  Moore — the  gloomy  portrait  of  a  hero  whom  no  moral  sentiment 
ennobles,  no  genial  impulse  ever  warms,  but  justifying  the  author  by  his  aim 
to  show  in  the  maturer  life  of  his  hero  the  errors  of  early  education,  and 
the  absorbing  debasement  of  culiivated  egotism.  Nor  has  any  man  ventured 
to  deny  that  Dr.  Moore  in  his  wriiings  has  deserved  the  reputation  for  vir- 
tuous purpose,  which,  more  than  his  genius,  obtained  him  the  favor  of  the 
public. 

To  these  succeeded  the  truly  tragic  fiction  of  Godwin's  "  Caleb  Williams," 
in  which,  as  in  "  Julia  de  Roubigne,"  a  murderer  is  made  the  hero,  with 
false  honor  for  his  tempter,  while  his  remorse  and  his  terror  supply  both 
analysis  and  incident.  Yet,  whatever  may  be  said  of  Mr.  Godwin's  specula- 
tive opinions,  on  political  and  other  subjects,  all  will  admit  that  his  aims 
were  those  of  a  philosopher,  who  sought,  in  his  own  way,  the  inculcation  of 
morals.  And  while  his  more  erroneous  expositions  of  doctrine  have  sunk 
into  oblivion,  "  Caleb  Williams  "  lives  yet,  and  will,  perhaps,  live  while  our 
language  lasts,  as  a  monument  of  genius,  on  which  are  graven  admonitions 
to  error. 

Thus  it  will  be  perceived  that  in  all  the  classic  tragic  prose  fictions  preced- 
ing our  own  age,  criminals  have  afforded  the  prominent  characters,  and 
crime  the  essential  material. 

Since  the  production  of  those  works,  prose  fiction  has  yet  more  extended 
its  ancient  limits  *  It  has  entered  with  Goethe  the  domains  of  speculative 
thought  ;  it  has  been  enlarged  to  almost  boundless  extent  by  the  energies  of 
Scott.  But  while  that  last-named  and  illustrious  writer  enriched  the  realms 
he  had  won  with  the  stores  of  the  historian,  and  from  the  minds  of  the  poet; 
while,  in  mere  form,  more  than  any  one,  he  relieved  and  animated  the  prog- 
ress of  narrative,  and  the  delineation  of  character  with  the  dialogue  and 
action  of  the  stage,  of  tragic  fiction,  rigidly  so  called,  he  has  left  but  one 
signal  masterpiece,  "The  Bride  of  Lammermoor."  f  In  this,  to  create  his 

*  Thus,  indeed,  a  class  of  composition  has  arisen,  for  which  as  yet  we  have  no  definite 
name  ;  it  corresponds  not  with  our  associations  of  the  novel,  nor  yet  with  those  of  the 
romance.  It  does  not  belong  precisely  to  either.  We  cannot  justly  call  "  Wilhelm 
Meister  "  or  "  Anastasius,"  "Undine  or  "  Picciola,"  "Atala"  or  "  Rene,"  "Caleb 
Williams  "  and  "  Julia  de  Roubigne,"  either  novels  or  romances.  In  England  the  word 
fiction  has  thus  crept  into  use,  for  want  of  one  less  general  and  vague. 

t  Unless  we  admit,  as  perhaps  we  ought,  the  more  mixed  and  less  gloomy  romance  of 
"  Kenilworth,"  in  which  I  need  not  say,  that  all  which  is  effected  of  terror  is  produced  by 
the  agency  of  guilt  ;  in  fact,  wherever  Walter  Scott  has  produced  terror  without  employ- 
ing supernatural  means,  it  will  always  and  unavoidably,  from  the  causes  stated  in  tho 
text,  be  found  in  connection  with  crime. 


A   WORD    TO    THE    PUBLIC. 

it 

effects  of  awe,  though  human  evil  is  unquestionably  introduced,  he  rather 
resorted  to  the  old  Greek  instrumentality  of  fate — a  means  which  (for  an  ob- 
vious reason  that  I  shall  state  hereafter)  he  could  not  have  continued  to  em- 
ploy if  he  had  more  generally  directed  his  genius  to  tragic  compositions. 
But,  though  "  The  Bride  of  Lammermoor  "  suffices  to  show  that  Scott's 
power  in  the  sterner  narrative  surpassed  all  before  him  and  since,  the  more 
habitual  tendencies  of  his  mind  did  not  lead  his  choice  to  the  regions  over 
which  awe  and  terror  preside  ^ 

"  Di  quibus  impejKim  est  animarum  umbraeque  silentes 
Et  Chaos  et  PHlegethon,  loca  node  silentia  late"; 

still  to  the  adventurer  whmn  those  regions  invite,  it  is  permitted  to  add  : 

"  Sit  mihi  fas  audita  loqui :  sit,  numine  vestro, 
Panderg4es  alta  terra  et  caligine  mersas." 

The  tragic  fiction  is  conceived — it  has  taken  growth — it  may  be  destined, 
amidst  the  comparative  neglect  of  the  stage,  to  supply  the  lessons  which  the 
tragic  drama  has,  for  a  while,  abandoned.  Do  not  fetter  its  wanderings 
from  free  search  after  truth  through  the  mazes  of  society,  and  amidst  all  the 
contrasts  of  nature.  If  it  is  to  be  a  voice  to  the  heart,  an  interpreter  of  the 
secrets  of  life,  you  cannot  withhold  from  it  the  broadest  experience  of  the 
struggle  between  good  and  evil,  happiness  and  woe. 

"  Hunc  igitur  terrorem>i«lirni,  tenebrasque  necesse  est." 

But  I  am  told,  somewhat  more  definitely  and  precisely,  that  though 
crimes  of  a  lofty  order,  rendered  high  and  solemn  by  ancient  tradition,  and 
clad  in  the  pomp  of  history,  are  fitting  subjects  for  fiction,  the  crimes  which 
occur  in  our  own  day,  and  finish  their  career  at  the  gallows  or  the  hulks,  are 
wholly  to  be  banished  from  recital.  "  Such  things  may  be :  leave  them 
to  their  own  ignominy.  Why  elevate  vulgar  felons  into  heroes,  and 
take  us  for  interest  to  the  Old  Bailey?  " 

This,  I  believe,  is  a  correct  quotation  from  the  kind  of  censure  with  which 
(stripped  of  its  grosser  personalities)  I  have  had  to  contend.  Once  for  all,  I 
will  seek  to  answer  it  as  seriously  as  if  it  were  an  argument,  not  a  declama- 
tion ;  a  friendly  remonstrance,  not  a  hostile  and  heated  assault.  And  while 
replying  to  my  assailants  in  the  Press,  I  address  calmly  and  respectfully  my 
argument  to  those  on  whom  attacks  so  frequently  and  passionately  urged 
may  have  produced  an  impression  which  it  pains  me  most  deeply  to  think 
any  work  of  mine  should  create  on  one  honorable  and  impartial  mind. 

I  have  already,  I  trust,  shown  that  the  charge  of  habitually  selecting  crim- 
inals for  my  themes  is  in  itself  untrue.  I  proceed  now  to  the  question,  how 
far  the  crimes  of  our  own  days,  the  crimes  of  Tyburn  and  the  Old  Bailey,  may 
be  admissible  to  the  license  of  art  in  fiction,  and  conducive  to  the  moral  it 
should  inculcate. 

I  will  grant  at  once  that,  for  the  purposes  of  poeiry,  high  tragic  effect  miy 
be  more  readily  produced,  and  may  iminlly  create  a  grander  or  less  distress- 
ful sentiment  of  awe,  when  it  is  sought  in  the  ancient  treasure-house  of 
history  or  fable  ;  and  in  some  of  my  works  I  have  reverently  drawn  from 
such  elder  and  remoter  sources.  But  one  region  of  art  does  not  exclude 
the  other.  The  past  cannot  otonopofize  the  sorrows  and  crimes  of  ages. 
While  we  live,  we  ourselves  become  a  past.  And  we  are  unquestionably 
warranted  to  consult  the  Book  of  Time,  in  the  paee  which  is  spread  before 
our  eyes.  Can  we  do  so  faithfully  if  we  strike  out  all  passages  that  pain  or 
perplex  us  ?  Can  we  give  any  fair  idea  of  the  record,  if  we  confine  all  our 
extracts  to  what  we  ins1  inctively  approve  and  readily  comprehend?  No, 


394-  A    WORD     TO     THE     PUBLIC. 

every  one  concedes  to  me  at  once,  that  a  writer  is  at  libeity  to  search  amidst 
the  materials  afforded  to  him  in  modern  life,  for  the  subjects  and  characters 
of  fiction.  The  comic  writer  takes  fearlessly  whatever  in  the  errors  and 
vices  of  mankind  adapts  itself  to  the  comic  result  of  exciting  our  ridicule, 
and  moving  our  contempt  : 

- 

"  Licet,  semperque  licebit 

dicere  cle  vitiis."  * 

"  It  ever  has,  and  ever  will  be,  lawful  to  speak  of  the  vices  "  which  it  is  the 
province  of  Comedy  as  of  Satire  to  expose.  The  Tartttffe  of  Moliere,  (he 
Blifil  vi  Fielding,  the  Squire  Thornhill  tot  Goldsmith  (a  scoundrel,  perhaps 
the  vilest  and  the  most  sparingly  punished  in  comic  fiction),  the  whole  spirit  in 
Le  Sage,  the  whole  object  in  Swift,  are  unifoimly  directed  to  the  exposure 
of  the  meaner  and  more  vicious  propensities  of  men.  Folly  and  error,  vice 
punished  by  ridicule,  constitute  the  main  materials  of  the  comic  writer, 
whether  he  employ  them  in  a  drama  or  a  novel.  Must  we  not  grant  to  the 
writer  who  seeks  for  the  elements  of  tragedy  that  exist  in  his  own  time,  the 
equal  license  to  seek  for  the  materials  to  which  tragedy  must  apply?  What 
are  those  materials  but  ihe  passions  and  the  crimes  of  men — as,  for  comedy,  the 
materials  are  drawn  from  the  humors  and  the  vices  ?  Terror  and  compassion 
are  the  sources  of  the  tragic  writer's  effects  ;  the  destructive  or  pernicious 
power  of  intellect  corrupted  into  guilt,  affords  him  the  natural  means  of 
creating  terror  for  the  evil,  and  compassion  for  its  victims.  To  say  that  the 
criminals  he  is  thus  compelled  to  employ  as  the  agents  of  his  plot  are  unfit 
for  his  purpose  because  they  may  be  classed  amongst  the  prey  of  Newgate 
and  the  Old  Bailey,  is  but  to  lay  down  the  preposterous  principle  that  we 
must  not  extract  tragedy  from  times  in  which  laws  are  carried  into  effect  ;  it 
is  simply  to  say  that,  because  men  in  our  day  are  transported  and  hanged 
for  guilt,  the  guilt  of  our  day  it  is  improper  to  analyze  and  depict.  All 
crimes  now,  if  detected,  must  obtain  the  notoiiety  of  th.  Old  Bailey,  or  reap 
their  desert  in  Newgate  ;  and  to  contend  that  Newgate  and  the  Old  Bailey 
unfit  them  for  the  uses  of  the  writer  of  fiction,  is  virtually  to  deprive  him  of 
the  use  of  all  crimes  punished  by  modern  law  and  enacted  in  the  modern 
day  :  as  if  there  were  110  warning  to  be  drawn  from  sins  that  are  not  ennobled 
by  ermine  and  purple  ;  as  if  there  were  no  terror  in  the  condemned  cell,  no 
tragedy  at  the  foot  of  the  gallows  !  And  yet  how  hackneyed  is  the  aphorism 
that  the  human  heait,  and  the  tragedy  to  be  drawn  from  it,  remain  the  same 
in  every  age  !  Unless,  then,  we  deny  altogether  that  we  are  to  seek  for  trie 
sources  of  tragedy  amidst  the  times  which  we  must  necessarily  know  the  best, 
amongst  the  characters  on  which  the  broadest  and  steadiest  light  can  be  cast, 
amidst  the  warnings  the  most  immediately  useful  to  us,  we  cannot  reject  to 
the  writer  of  modern  fiction  the  materials  of  modern  tragedy,  even  though 
they  are  drawn  from  the  records  of  the  prison-house,  and  the  judgments  of  the 
,  law.  The  materials  must  be  open  to  choice,  with  certain  stipulations  as  to 
the  treatment,  into  which  we  shall  enter  hiler. 

TTHasTofigindeed  been  the  opinion  of  many  minds  the  most  thoughtfully 
bent  upon  the  alliance  between  humanity  and  art,  that  we  have  too  much 
neglected  the  deeper  and  graver  characteristics  of  our  own  age  ;  too  much 
contented  ourselves  with  surveys  of  the  surface,  delineations  of  manners, 
fashions,  and  foibles,  and  turned  to  the  past  for  that  sterner  poetry  which  is 
not  less  sensibly  to  be  found  in  the  sorrows  and  the  guilt  of  the  life  around 
us.  Thus,  towards  the  close  of  his  life,  Schiller,  whom  at  that  time  no  man 
can  accuse  of  rash  and  unconsidered  tamperings  with  the  legitimate  end  of 

*  HOR.  Sat.  4,  lib.  x. 


A    WORD     TO     THE     PUBLIC. 


to) 


genius,  meditated  a  drama  that  would  seem  least  poetical  to  the  shallow,  but 
was  intended  to  extract  poetry  from  the  very  sources  which  it  seems  we  are 
now  forbidden  to  explore.  His  proposed  subject  was  "  The  French  Police  "; 
and  I  need  not  say  that  the  conception  could  not  fail  to  comprehend  the 

evils,  the  abuses,  and  the  crimes  of  modern  civilization.  , _ 

Good  men  there  are,  no  doubt,  who  would  interdict  altogether  the  presen- 
tation of  actual  crime  as  painful  and  revolting — as  administering  to  a  passion 
for  diseased  excitement  ;  I  respect  their  scruples.  But,  without  here  pausing  • 
to^exarnine  what  weight  can  be  attached  to  them,  is  the  prohibition  even  pos-  ; 
sible  ?  "Crime  meets  us  as  a  fact  everywhere  ;  you  cannot  open  a  newspaper, ; 
you  caVinot  refer  to  statistics,  you  cannot  mix  in  the  ordinary  world,  but 
crime  is  forced  daily  and  hourly  on  your  notice.  You  must  close  up  for 
purity  and  you'h  all  history,  sacred  and  profane  :  you  must  shut  out  from) 
the  calendar  of  life  the  tyrant  and  the  martyr  ;  you  must  seal  up  the  foun- 
tains of  literature,  and  silence  the  long  succession  of  poets  from  Soph- 
ocles to  Dante,  from  Dante  to  Shakespeare,  from  Shakespeare  to  the  last 
song  that  has  thrilled  through  the  world — if  you  seek  to  exclude  fiom  the  , 
mind  the  dark  certainties  of  guilt.  Even  then  you  will  fail.  Man  has  but 
to  live,  to  know  that  crime  is  the  foe  man  must  brave.  Could  you  instruct 
him  what  he  should  resist  and  abhor,  if  you  could  leave  him  ignorant  of  its 
existence  and  its  chastisement?  You  cannot,  like  the  Emperor  of  China, 
live  in  a  fancied  succession  of  triumphs  and  security,  and  receive  congratu- 
lations on  the  felicity  of  your  reign  and  the  impregnability  of  your  dominion, 
while  the  enemy  are  blockading  your  ports  and  sailing  up  your  rivers.  The 
essential  characteristic  of  this  age  and  land  is  publicity.  There  exists  a 
Press  which  bares  at  once  to  the  universal  eye  every  example  of  guilt  that 
comes  before  a  legal  tribunal.  In  these  very  newspapers  which  would  for- 
bid a  romance  writer  to  depict  crime  with  all  that  he  can  suggest  to  demon- 
strate its  causes,  portray  its  hideousness,  insist  on  -its  inevitable  doom,  are 
everywhere  to  be  found  the  minutest  details  of  guilt  ;  the  meanest  secrets  of 
the  pri>o  -house  are  explored,  turnkeys  interrogated,  and  pages  filled  with 
descriptions  of  the  personal  appearance  of  the  felon,  his  dress  at  the  bar, 
his  courage  at  the  gallows.  To  find  the  true  literature  of  Newgate  and 
Tyburn,  you  have  only  to  open  the  newspaper  on  your  table.  That  reports 
thus  sent  abroad  to  all  quarters  of  a  motley  civilization,  read  aloud  in  the 
lowest  alehouse,  and  in  the  vilest  resorts  of  outcasts  and  thieves — the  only 
literary  food  (ns  newspapers  are)  of  the  most  uneducated  classes — that  sue h 
may  do  harm,  I  am  ready  to  confess,  and  this  from  the  careless  tone  and  the 
base  detail,  the  obtrusion  of  a  criminal  notoriety  unaccompanied  by  a  single 
lesson — gorging  the  curiosity  and  familiarizing  away  the  solemnity  of  guilt.* 
But  how  different  this  from  the  narrative  of  a  writer  of  fiction,  who  presents 
no  single  portraiture  of  crime  to  monopolize  the  morbid  fancy  ;  who  con- 
trasts it  with  images  of  purity  and  innocence  ;  who  analyzes  the  workings  of 
the  heart,  and  thus  checks  its  progress  lo  corruption  ;  who  accompanies  the 
crime,  as  by  its  shadow,  with  the  darkness  of  i;s  own  deformity  ;  whoexer  s 
all  the  power  he  possesses  to  accumulate  terrors  round  its  consequences  and 
chastisements  ;  whose  work  by  its  literary  treatment  (if  the  author  possess 
but  ordinary  scholarship),  to  say  nothing  of  its  mode  of  publication,  is  not 
destined  to  penetrate,  like  the  newspaper,  amongst  the  most  ignorant  and 
perverted,  the  accomplices  and  imitators  of  the  guilty,  but  is  almost  necessarily 

*  This  is  the  necessity  of  the  newspaper  press,  rather  than  a  reproach  to  it.  That  press 
but  obeys  the  imperious  demands  for  publicity  which  the  age  enforces.  Its  business  is  to 
deal  with  facts  ;  and  it  can  only  partially  and  briefly  convey  the  deductions  which  the 
author  of  a  fiction  writes  volumes  to  explain. 


in 


398  A  WORD   TO   THE   PUBLIC. 

confined  to  classes  of  a  certain  education,  which  would  render  the  imitation 
as  untempting  as  the  guilt  itself  is  abhorrent.  The  fiction  supplies  the  very 
lessons  the  newspaper  cannot  give.  If  the  reader  doubt  this,  let  him  only 
compare  the  impressions  made  on  his  mind  by  a  crime  brought  before  the 
courts  of  law  with  those  produced  by  a  crime  which  some  imaginative  writer 
has  depicted  ;  I  am  greatly  mistaken  if  he  does  not  own,  at  once,  that  the 
last  are  infinitely  more  grave,  more  forcible,  and  more  enduring. 

Analysis  of  the  darker  or  coarser  crimes  of  society  is  not  intended  to 
reform  the  criminals — them  it  does  not  reach.  It  is  not  as  a  curb  to  tyrants 
that  "  William  Tell"  is  effective.  It  is  not  to  reform  an  Appius  that  we 
express  our  sympathy  with  Virginius.  It  is  not  to  breathe  virtue  into  burglars 
that  "  Jonathan  Wild"  was  composed,  or  to  prevent  men  from  poisoning 
their  wives  that  Mackenzie  wrote  his  "  Julia  de  Roubigne."  Limifed,  indeed, 
would  be  the  moral  uses  of  fiction,  if  confined  to  the  peculiar  idiosyncrasies 
of  character  it  selects  Nor  is  it  only  by  the  catastrophe  itself  that  fiction 
reaches  the  heart,  but  y^t  more  by  the  mental  dissection  which  it  admits, 
that  it  corrects  our  errors  in  developing  their  causes.  It  is  by  the  tendencies 
to  which  terror  or  compassion  in  the  tragic  form,  ridicule  and  contempt  in  the 
comic,  are  the  agents,  that  we  confirm  social  enthusiasm  for  virtue,  and  unite 
the  reason  with  the  passions  in  detestation  of  crime.  And  all  this  can  be 
equally  effected,  whether  we  resort  for  materials  to  the  past  or  to  the  present, 
to  the  vices  of  the  great  or  to  those  of  the  mean.  It  is  the  treatment  that 
ennobles,  not  the  subject.  Grant  that  the  characters  are  what  convention 
calls  low — in  birth,  station,  instruction  ;  born  ina cellar,  dyingon  the  gibbet, 
they  are  not  one  jot,  for  those  reasons,  made  necessarily  low  to  art.  Art  can, 
with  Fielding,  weave  an  epic  from  adventures  with  gamekeepers  and  barbers. 
Art  can,  with  Goethe,  convert  into  poetry  the  most  lofty,  the  homely  image 
of  the  girl  condemned  for  infanticide,  and  confine  the  vast  war  between 
spirits  and  men  to  the  floors  of  her  felon  cell.  Rightly  has  the  most  majestic 
of  poets  placed  at  the  Portals  of  Dread,  not  those  fiends  which  are  the 
tempters  of  the  great  and  deluders  of  the  wise,  but  rather  the  demons  of  the 
ruder  multitude,  "Fear  and  ill-udvising  Hunger,  Labor  and  shameful 
Want "— 

"  Et  M  etus,  et  malesuada  Fames  et  turpis  Egestas ; 
Terribiles  visu  forma; — Letumque,  Laborqtie."  * 

To  sum  up,  I  think,  then,  we  must  allow  : 

First.  That  crime,  however  great  and  heinous,  is  an  admitted  and  neces- 
sary agency  in  tragic  fiction,  warranted  by  the  employment  of  the  greatest 
masters,  and  the  sanction  of  all  ages. 

Secondly.  That  it  is  equally  admissible  in  the  narrative  fiction  as  the 
dramatic. 

Thirdly.  That  we  may  seek  for  the  materials  of  terror  in  crime,  or 
destructive  power,  amidst  the  present  as  the  past  ;  that  we  are  limited  neither 
to  particular  periods,  nor  conventional  gradations  of  rank  ;  that  wherever  we 
find  the  facts  that  furnish  the  passion  of  terror,  f  and  the  characters  that 
permit  the  analysis  of  motive  to  conduct  (the  cause  to  the  effect) — we  are  at 
full  liberty  to  use  them. 

I  said  that  we  have  a  right  to  demand  certain  stipulations  as  to  treatment 
and  selection. 

*  VIRG.  Mn.  vi.  276,  277. 

t  I  should  apologize  for  the  fatiguing  repetition  of  the  word  terror  throughout  this  in. 
quiry.  But  I  could  not  avoid  it  without  obscurity  and  circumlocution.  I  must  make  the 
t*s>e  excuse  for  the  repetition  of  the  word  art. 


A    WORD    TO    THE    PUBLIC.  390 

Firstly.  We  have  a  right  to  demand  that,  whatever  interest  the  author 
bids  us  take  in  the  criminal,  we  should  never,  by  any  metaphysical  sophistry, 
be  seduced  into  admiration  of  the  crime  ;  I  hat  even  where,  as  usually  in  the 
drama,  the  criminal  is  invested  with  attributes  that  enforce  respect,  or  is  in-  : 
duced  to  an  offence  at  war  with  his  general  character  by  circumstance  and  > 
temp'ation,  still  the  crime  itself  should  be  shown  clearly  as  a  violation  of 
eternal  laws,  and  be  condemned,  not  only  by  the  result  in  the  fiction,  but 
the  reason  of  the  beholder.  We  are  not  forbidden  to  sympathize  with 
Othello  in  his  jealousy,  nor  to  admire  the  nobleness  which  contrasts  an  in- 
firmity ordinarily  mean  and  egotistical:  for  we  see  that  the  crime  to  which  it 
urges  him  entails  its  own  direful  punishment,  and  no  compassion  for  the 
muiderer  lessens  our  horror  of  the  murder. 

Secondly.  The  crimes  depicted  should  not  be  of  a  nature  to  lead  us 
through  licentious  scenes,  nor  accompanied  with  descriptions  that  appeal 
dangerously  to  the  senses.  There  is  one  class  of  evil  which  shocks  and  re- 
volts us  ;  there  is  another  class  of  evil  to  which  the  most  perilous  ally  is  in 
our  own  nature.  There  is  nothing  to  corrupt  us  in  the  delineation  of  murder 
and  violent  wrong  ;  our  instincts  recoil  at  once  from  the  idea  of  imitation. 
There  may  be  much  to  corrupt  us  in  the  delineation  of  an  adulterous  love, 
though  the  moral  it  is  meant  to  convey  may,  in  itself,  be  excellent.  And, 
therefore,  it  is  safest  not  to  make  prominent  or  minutely  to  detail  crimes  of  a 
nature  which  less  openly  revolts  us  than  insidiously  allures.* 

Thirdly.  In  dealing  especially  with  the  coarser  and  more  violent  crimes 
least  idealized  by  remote  tradition,  least  dignified  by  history  above  vulgar 
associations,  the  author  is  bound  to  have  some  object  in  view,  belonging  to 
the  purer  and  more  thoughtful  principles  of  art,  to  which  the  means  he  em- 
ploys are  subordinate  and  conducive.  If  in  "Jonathan  Wild,"  Fielding 
takes  us  almost  solely  among  thieves  and  pickpockets,  it  is  not  merely,  and 
objectively,  as  it  were,  to  familiarize  us  with  their  principles  and  habits-  ]n 
describing  the  actual  meanness,  he  is  aiming  his  satire  at  false  greatness.  It 
is  not  because  a  man  is  a  felon  and  a  criminal  that  therefore  he  furnishes  a 
fitting  theme  for  the  drama  or  the  narrative.  I  guard  myself  especially 
against  appearing  to  sanction  so  preposterous  a  conclusion.  But  if  there  be 
anything  so  peculiar  in  his  guilt,  or  the  circumstances  attending  it,  as  to 
afford  fair  scope  for  artistic  purpose,  suggest  useful  reflections,  or  inculcate 
a  salutary  lesson,  then  it  is,  not  because  he  is  a  criminal  or  felon,  that  he  be- 
comes on  unfit  instrument  for  those  ends  to  which,  indeed  (as  we  have  seen), 
the  agency  of  crime  is  essential.  If,  therefore,  the  author  make  use  of  the 
actual  and  more  violent  guilt  that  forms  one  element  of  the  society  around  \ 
us,  we  have  a  right  to  expect  that  it  will  be  introduced,  not  in  wanton  levity, 
but  for  some  thoughtful  purpose — tending  (to  the  best  of  his  judgment)  to 
illustrate  some  serviceable  truth. 

These,  I  believe,  are  the  main  restrictions  which  we  must  impo?e  upon  the 
liberty  of  the  author,  in  granting  him  all  the  privileged  resources  of  his  arL_ 

I  venture  to  assert  that  by  these  restrictions  I  have  been  bound.  Throw- 
ing myself  on  the  indulgence  of  the  candid  for  an  egotism,  rendered  neces- 
sary by  the  direct  personality  of  the  attacks,  and  without  which  the  reader 
must  be  sensible  that  these  remarks  would  be.  desultory  and  incomplete  ; 
and  assuming  merely,  that  the  three  works  I  am  called  upon  to  defend  have 

*  And  this  principle  of  treatment,  be  it  observed}  holds  as  good  in  the  delineation  of  virtue 
as  in  the  exhibition  of  guilt.  "  Pamela,"  for  instance,  is  intended  to  celebrate  the 
triumph  of  virtue  in  a  woman  ;  "  Caleb  Williams  "  depicts  the  guilty  fall  of  a  man.  Yet 
which  of  the  two  fictions  would  a  father  prefer  to  trust  to  his  children  ?  The  design  of 
Richardson  is  eminently  virtuous,  hut,  by  an  error  in  art,  the  treatment  obtrudes  scenes 
and  suggests  ideas  of  very  questionable  safety. 


466  A    WORD     TO     THE     PUBLld. 

been  read  by  those  to  whom  I  address  myself,  I  proceed  to  challenge  for 
them  the  severest  application  the  impartial  can  bestow,  of  the  rules  I  have 
laid  down  for  the  proprieties  of  treatment. 

And  first,  as  to  "  Paul  Clifford."  *  The  object  of  "  Paul  Clifford  "  ought 
to  be  sufficiently  apparent.  It  was  written  at  a  time  when  capital  punish- 
ment was  still  in  this  country  indiscriminately  impolitic  and  severe  ;  when 
society  was  not  employed,  as  it  is  virtuously  now,  in  seeking  to  reform  the 
circumstances  which  engender  crime  in  the  masses  ;  but  was  content  with 
punishing  by  severity  the  offences  it  had  in  much  caused  by  neglect.  To 
quote  from  the  short  preface  to  the  edition  of  1840,  it  was  my  design  there- 
fore, "to  draw  attention  to  two  errors  in  our  penal  institutions:  viz.,  a 
vicious  prison  discipline,  and  a  sanguinary  criminal  code — the  habit  of  first 
corrupting  the  boy  by  the  very  punishment  that  ought  to  redeem  him,  and 
then  hanging  the  man  on  the  first  occasion,  as  the  easiest  way  of  getting  rid 
of  our  own  blunders  ";  it  was  "  a  satire  on  the  shortcut  established  between 
the  house  of  correction  and  the  condemned  cell." 

Paul  Clifford  himself  is  thus  represented  as  one  of  the  very  numerous 
class  to  which  all  practical  philanthropists  are  now  inviting  our  attention  ; 
exposed  in  boyhood  to  the  contagion  of  evil  companionship,  sent  to  prison 
for  an  offence  he  does  not  commit ;  escaping  from  it  by  the  dexterity  of  one 
of  those  confirmed  rogues,  with  whom  a  prison  brings  him  into  familiar 
association  ;  and  afterwards,  almost  necessarily  diiven  for  a  livelihood  into 
defiance  of  the  Law,  which  had  already  expelled  him  from  its  pale.  Paul 
Clifford  offends,  and  he  is  punished — he  is  an  exile  forever  from  his  country  ; 
but  as  his  offence  is  extenuated  by  circumstances  ;  as  society  in  itself  is  in 
some  measure  a  partaker  of  it  ;  as  some  good  qualities,  that  show  him  capable 
of  reform,  belong  to  his  character,  and  as  he  has  been  led  into  none  of  the 
darker  crimes  of  cruelty,  revenge,  and  bloodshed — so  he  is  not  punished  to 
the  extent  of  the  gallows.  He  is  allowed  to  work  out  his  redemption  by 
repentance  and  atonement.  In  all  this,  the  Novelist  does  but  second  the 
improved  disposition  of  Society  itself.  He  does  but  advocate  in  a  fiction  the 
principles  which  are  nowenlighleningour  journals  and  ameliorating  our  laws. 

To  guard  against  danger  of  imitation  by  the  modern  invaders  of  property 
(if  such  a  book  could  ever  reach  them),  Paul  Clifford  is  not  represented — as 
certain  parties  choose  unblushingly  to  assert — as  a  mere  pickpocket  and 
thief ;  he  is  taken  out  of  the  range  of  existing  subjects  for  the  Old  Bailey. 
His  offence  is  that  of  the  obsolete,  and  now  impossible,  nature  which  char- 
acterized what  was  satirically  called  the  "Gentleman  Highwayman";  nud 
has  passed  away  from  our  well-regulated  roads  and  enclo-ed  commons  as  en- 
tirely as  the  band  of  Robin  Hood  has  passed  from  the  glades  of  Sherwood. 
It  can  now  be  imitated  no  more  than  adventurous  youth  can  imitate  the 
Locksley  and  the  Rob  Roy  of  Walter  Scott.  And  with  quite  as  much  jus- 
tice in  the  last-cited  novel  may  its  great  and  healthful  author  be  accused  of 
exalting  a  robber  into  a  hero,  and  weaving  round  him  a  dangerous  and  im- 
moral interest,  as  the  humbler  writer,  now  put  upon  his  defence,  of  such  a 
design  in  the  moonlight  rides  of  Paul  Clifford,  the  Highwayman. f  If  excep- 
tion be  taken  to  the  mere  lowness  of  scenes  and  characters  occasionally  intro- 

*  The  real  hero  of  this  book  is  perhaps  rather  William  Brandon  than  his  son  ;  but  I  take 
the  responsibility  created  by  the  title  selected. 

t  Rob  Roy  defies  the  law,  plunders  the  traveller,  ravages  the  border,  spares  not  life,  if  in 
his  way,  and  is  represented  on  the  whole  as  an  amiable  and  gallant  character,  and  dis- 
missed without  punishment,  to  the  doubtful  approbation  of  the  reader.  In  all  this  th« 
assailers  of  "  Paul  Clifford  "  see  nothing  to  call  for  the  charge  of  raising  robbers  into 
heroes,  or  bestowing  interest  upon  criminals.  And  they  are  right.  Let  them  be  but  con* 
sistcnt.  If  this  miserable  jargon  is  to  be  employed  at  all,  let  them  use  it  impartially. 


A    WORD     TO     THE    PUBLIC.  4OI 

duced  in  the  book,  but  by  no  means  forming  the  principal  part  of  it,  I  may 
observe,  that  as  they  contain  nothing  obscene  or  licentious,  nothing  to  incite 
or  inflame,  and  are  not  introduced  for  themselves,  but  for  satire  upon  the 
real  vulgarity  often  found  beneath  the  mere  conventional  polish  they  trav- 
esty or  burlesque — so  whatever  may  be  said  against  such  an  introduction  on 
the  score  of  art,  it  is  free,  at  least,  from  all  tendency  to  corrupt.  And  in 
this,  since  I  cannot  claim  the  merit  of  originality,  I  have  at  least  the  sanc- 
tion of  authorities  the  most  respected — not  only  in  the  disputed  morality  of 
the  "  Beggars'  Opera,"  or  the  nobler  precedent  of  ''  Jonathan  Wild,"  but  in 
the  "  Beggars'  Bush"  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  which  does  not  disdain  to 
put  slang  into  verse,  in  the  "  Guzman  D'Alfarache "  of  Le  Sage,  in  the 
"  Sharper "  of  Quevedo,  and  in  the  innumerable  scenes  in  what  is  called 
"  low  life,"  which  are  never  cited  in  reproach  of  our  greatest  novelists. 

I  think,  therefore,  that  I  may  fairly  dismiss  "Paul  Clifford"  to  the  acquit- 
tal of  any  impartial  jury  upon  the  capital  charges  that,  without  evidence  and 
against  precedent,  have  been  laid  to  its  charge. 

In  "Eugene  Aram"  the  case  was  wholly  different,  demanding  graver 
treatment  and  more  awful  chastisement ;  here,  at  least,  there  was  no  vulgar 
offender,  nor  here  was  there  any  victim  to  the  errors  and  neglect  of  society. 
Here  was  one  of  those  startling  phenomena  in  human  conduct  which  had  ar-  .  ,^/\ 
rested  the  attention  of  the  historian,  claimed  the  muse  of  the  Poet,  which  Ar 
had  been  more  than  the  nine  days'  wonder  in  the  age  in  which  it  had  oc- 
curred, and  remained  in  the  record  and  memories  of  men,  as  containing  the 
problems,  and  exciting  the  terror,  of  a  completed  tragedy  in  itself.  The 
picture  of  a  laborious  and  self-taught  student,  apparently  of  a  life  the  most 
blameless,  a  character  the  most  humane,  locking  within  his  conscience  the 
secret  of  a  dark  and  inexplicable  crime,  not  to  be  explained  by  intelligible 
motives — attributed  to  what  seemed  essentially  opposite  to  his  nature  and 
pursuits  (viz.,  the  mean  desire  of  gain) — brought  to  light  after  many  years, 
by  a  series  of  circumstances,  regular  and  coherent  as  the  links  in  a  Drama, 
is  surely  not  to  be  classed  amidst  the  vulgar  and  commonplace  offences  of 
Newgate  records  ;  and  if  ever  crime  be  admissible  in  fiction,  I  confess  that 
I  know  of  few  within  that  wide  history  in  which  it  finds  its  place  more  set 
apart  and  marked  out  for  tragic  analysis  and  delineation.  Not  in  the  vari- 
ous subjects  it  has  been  my  fortune  to  select,  though'  they  have  dealt  with 
larger  and  more  complicated  interests  of  mankind  ;  not  in  Piiny's  fearful  ac- 
count of  the  flaming  mountain  and  buried  city  ;  not  in  the  failing  attempt  of 
Kienzi  to  resuscitate  the  corpse  of  Roman  grandeur,  recorded  in  the  annals 
of  Italy  ;  not  in  the  wild  and  gloomy  struggle  in  which  our  own  Chroniclers 
have  tracked,  amidst  the  Wars  of  the  Roses,  the  sanguinary  transition  from 
the  feudal  to  the  social  age,  can  I  recognize  a  theme  more  adapted  to  tragic 
purposes  than  the  image  of  that  solitary  mind,  silent  and  bowed  down  be- 
neath the  weight  of  its  solitary  crime.  I  was  not  singular  in  my  belief  that 
this  subject  was  appropriate  to  the  purposes  to  which  I  presumed  to  apply 
it.  Mr.  Godwin  assured  me  that  he  had  often  meditated  a  fiction,  of  which 
Eugene  Aram  was  to  be  the  hero  ;  and  I  am  informed  by  a  high  and  indis- 
putable authority,*  that  Sir  Walter  Scott  expressed  his  surprise  that  a  crime 
so  peculiarly  adapted  to  tragedy  or  romance,  had  been  so  long  untreated  by 
either. 

I  venture,  then,  to  assume  that  the  choice  of  my  subject  was  sufficiently 
legitimate.  And  I  addressed  myself  to  its  execution  with  an  earnest  study 
neither  to  palliate  the  offence,  nor  diminish  the  terror  of  the  chastisement. 

*  Our  distinguished  diplomatist,  Sir  Hamilton  Seymour, 


402  A    WORD     TO     THE     PUBLIC. 

Here,  unlike  the  milder  guilt  of  Paul  Clifford,  the  author  was  not  to  imply 
reform  to  society,  nor  open  in  this  world  atonement  and  pardon  to  the  crim- 
inal. As  it  would  have  been  wholly  in  vain  to  disguise,  by  mean  tamper- 
ings  with  art  and  truth,  the  ordinary  habits  of  life  and  attributes  of  charac- 
ter, which  all  record  and  remembrance  ascribed  to  Eugene  Aram,  as  it  would 
have  defeated  every  end  of  the  moral  inculcated  by  his  guilt,  to  portray,  in 
the  caricature  of  the  murderer  of  melodrame,  a  man  immersed  in  study,  of 
whom  it  was  noted  that  he  turned  aside  from  the  worm  in  his  path,*  so  I 
have  allowed  to  him  whatever  contrasts  with  his  inexpiable  crime  have  been 
recorded  on  sufficient  authority.  But  I  have  invariably  taken  care  that  the 
crime  itself  should  stand  stripped  of  every  sophistry,  and  be  hideous  to  the 
perpetrator  as  well  as  to  the  world.  Allowing  all  by  which  attention  to  his 
biography  may  explain  the  tremendous  paradox  of  fearful  guilt  in  a  man  as- 
piring after  knowledge  and  not  generally  inhumane — allowing  that  the  crime 
came  upon  him  in  the  partial  insanity,  produced  by  the  combining  circum- 
stances of  a  brain  overwrought  by  intense  study,  disturbed  by  an  excited  im- 
agination, and  the  fumes  of  a  momentary  disease  of  the  reasoning  faculty, 
consumed  by  the  desire  of  knowledge,  unwholesome  and  morbid,  because 
coveted  as  an  end,  not  a  means,  added  to  the  other  physical  causes  of  mental 
aberration — to  be  found  in  loneliness,  and  want  verging  upon  famine — all 
these  which  a  biographer  may  suppose  to  have  conspired  to  his  crime,  have 
never  been  used  by  the  novelist  as  excuses  for  its  enormity,  nor  indeed,  lest 
they  should  seem  as  excuses,  have  they  ever  been  clearly  presented  to  the 
view.  The  moral  consisted  in  showing  more  than  the  mere  legal  punishment 
at  the  close.  It  was  to  show  how  the  consciousness  of  the  deed  was  to  exclude 
whatever  humanity  of  character  preceded  and  belied  it  from  all  aciive  exer- 
cise— all  social  confidence  :  how  the  knowledge  of  the  bar  between  the  minds 
of  others  and  his  own,  deprived  the  criminal  of  all  motive  to  ambition,  and 
blighted  knowledge  of  all  fruit  :  Miserable  in  his  affections,  barren  in  his  in- 
tellect ;  clinging  to  solitude,  yet  accursed  in  it ;  dreading  as  a  danger  the 
fame  he  had  once  coveted  ;  obscure  in  spite  of  learning,  hopeless  in  spite  of 
love,  fruitless  and  joyless  in  his  life,  calamitous  and  shameful  in  his  end, — 
surely  such  is  no  palliative  of  crime,  no  dalliance  and  toying  with  the  grim- 
ness  of  evil  !  And  surely,  to  any  ordinary  comprehension,  any  candid  mind, 
such  is  the  moral  conveyed  by  the  fiction  of  "  Eugene  Aram  "! 

I  come  now  to  the  last  of  the  three  works  of  which  I  have  undertaken  the 
defence.  But  before  I  speak  of  the  object  really  intended  in  the  romance  of 
"  Lucretia,"  I  must  clear  up  a  very  signal  and  general  mistake  on  the  part  of 
my  critics.  In  the  preface  to  "Lucretia,"  it  will  be  observed  that  I  speak 
much  of  an  intention  I  had  long  entertained  of  depicting  the  influences  of 
money  upon  modern  civilization,  and  exposing  what  I  held  as  a  vice  of  the 
day,  in  impatience  or  dislike  to  the  slow  returns  of  legitimate  toil,  whether 
in  pecuniary  speculation  or  intellectual  ambition.  And  upon  this,  wi'h  the 
exception  of  two  or  three  reviewers,  there  has  been  an  outcry  of  simultane- 
ous discovery  that  the  design  announced  in  the  preface  was  not  borne  out  in 
the  execution  of  the  book  ;  and  accordingly  that  the  book  was  a  failure,  be- 
cause the  author  had  not  accurately  defined  what  the  book  was  intended  to 
convey.  If  these  gentlemen  will  do  me  the  favor  to  correct  in  themselves 
that  "impatience"  which  I  took  the  liberty  to  denounce,  and  look  with  a 
liitle  less  hasie  at  thnt  unfortunate  preface,  they  will,  perhaps,  convince 
themselves  that  I  never  professed  "  Lucretia"  to  be  the  fulfilment  or  carry- 
ing out  of  the  purpose  which  I  said  I  had  once  meditated  in  an  earlier  de- 

*  The  Rev.  Mr.  Hinton  said  "  he  used  frequently  to  observe  Aram,  when  walking  in  the 
garden,  stoop  down  tp  remove  a  snail  or  a  worm  from  the  path." 


A    WORD     TO     THE    PUBLIC.  403 

sign.  What  I  stated,  I  thought  with  sufficient  distinctness,  was,  that  when 
I  half  implied  my  farewell  to  the  character  of  a  novelist,  I  had  imagined 
that  an  attempt  to  illus  rate  the  influences  of  money  might  be  best  worked 
out  upon  the  stage  ;  that  that  design,  with  which  I  wished  to  couple  some 
exposition  of  the  popular  vice  of  impatience,  I  afterwards  thought  I  could 
best  treat  in  a  novel  ;  but  that  while  meditating  such  a  conception,  I  became 
acquainted  with  the  lives  of  two  criminals,  so  remarkable  as  to  engage  my 
examination  and  analysis  ;  and,  that  this  second  design  had  supplanted 
the  first,  I  thought  I  had  made  abundantly  clear  by  the  following  remarks  : 

"  I  could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  reducing  to  a  tale  the  materials 
(viz.,  the  lives  and  letters  of  the  said  two  criminals)  which  had  so  engrossed 
my  interest  and  tasked  my  inquiries  ;  and,  in  this  attempt,  various  inciden ta I 
opportunities  have  occurred,  if  not  of  completely  carrying  out,  still  of  inci- 
dentally illustrating  my  earlier  design."  And,  a  few  lines  farther,  I  ex- 
pressly observe,  "  that  the  delineation  of  the  darker  crime  formed  the  staple 
of  my  narrative,"  proceeding  to  remark,  that  in  that  delineation  "ihe  kss 
obvious  moral  must  be  found  in  those  uses  to  which  poets  have  applied  the 
portraiture  of  gigantic  crime." 

Therefore,  any  impartial  person  will  perceive  at  once,  that  even  at  the 
commencement  of  my  book  its  object  has  been,  to  say  the  least,  carelessly 
misrepresented  ;  that  what  made  the  purpose  of  an  earlier  and  suspended 
design,  only  furnished  incidental  illustration  to  the  present ;  and  that  that 
illustration  was  the  less  noticeable  in  the  agencies  of  the  greater  crime  which 
formed  the  staple  of  the  narrative,  and  in  which  another  moral  must  neces- 
sarily be  sought. 

"  The  incidental  opportunities  "  to  which  I  limited  my  engagement,  occur 
chiefly  in  the  minor  agents  of  the  fiction.  William  Mainwaring,  with  a 
competent  fortune,  and  abiliiies  calculated,  with  steady  perseverance,  to 
gratify  ambition  by  an  honorable  repute,  finds  his  tempter  in  the  undue  de- 
sire of  gain,  and  the  rash  impatience  for  distinction.  Without  these  ene- 
mies in  his  own  breast,  Lucretia  had  been  powerless  against  him.  On  the 
other  hand  Walter  Ardworth,  represented  as  honest  in  his  impulse  and  gen- 
erous in  his  sympathies,  loses  character  for  want  of  due  regard  to  the  pru- 
dence in  preserving,  which  is  the  counter  error  to  greed  in  acquiring  ;  and 
too  impatient,  even  in  the  social  and  generous  tendencies  which  attach  him 
to  liberty  as  the  advancement  of  his  species,  to  study  the  application  of  the- 
ory to  practice,  sinks  into  a  shallow  declaimer,  as  useless  to  his  cause  as 
unprofitable  to  himself.  In  contrast  to  both  these,  meant  to  unite  the 
talenis  of  the  one  with  the  sympathies  of  the  other,  is  sketched  in  outline 
the  character  of  John  Ardworth  :  energetic  but  not  rash  ;  uncovetous,  but 
self-denying  ;  valuing  money  at  its  just  standard,  and  looking  to  steadfast 
labor  as  the  surest  means  of  success.  Incidentally  (if  only  incidentally)  the 
secret  and  sinister  influences  of  money  upon  conduct  are  also  suggested  in 
tne  mechanical  avarice  of  Beck,  the  habitual  degradation  of  Grabman  ;  in~ 
cidentally  they  even  apply  to  the  career  of  the  two  arch  criminals  them- 
selves— covetousness  and  impatience  are  twin  elements  in  the  grasping,  hol- 
low character  of  the  scoundrel,  Varney,  "  alieni  appetens,  suiprofusus,"  with 
the  cold  heart  of  the  miser,  the  rank  lusts  of  the  spendthrift.  Impatience  to 
attain  to  the  end,  which  her  selfish  love  for  Mainwaring  suggests,  is  the  first 
cause  of  those  criminal  desires  in  Lucretia,  which  are  the  germs  of  her  crim- 
inal deeds,  and  by  which  she  first  permits  herself  to  encourage  the  contem- 
plation of  a  human  life  as  an  obstacle  in  her  way.  And  with  all  her 
constitutional  indifference  to  money  in  itself,  so  much  is  money  mixed  up 
With  men's  fellegt  as  their  noblest  designs,  that  it  is  for  the  coveted  inherit- 


404  A    WORD     TO     THE    PUBLIC. 

ance  of  her  son,  for  the  power  money  can  bestow,  that  her  crowning  and 
most  hideous  guilt  is  principally  conceived  and  accomplished.  If  it  be  said 
that  these  are  not  the  patent  and  obvious  influences  of  money,  I  reply  that, 
even  in  my  earlier  design,  such  indirect  influences  were  not  those  which  I 
stated  it  to  be  my  intention  to  depict.  The  broad  characteristics,  whether 
of  a  Harpagon,  a  Beveiley,  or  an  Heir  of  Lynn,  have  been  sufficiently  por- 
trayed. I  .spoke  emphatically  of  a  former  design  to  trace  rather  "the 
strange  and  secret  ways  in  which  that  arch  civilizer,  familiarly  called  money, 
insinuates  itself  into  our  thoughts  and  motives,  our  hearts  and  actions." 
But  all  I  professed  in  this  work,  was  to  take  advantage  of  incidental  oppor- 
tunities of  suggesting  such  lessons — and  I  have  now  shown  that  I  have 
fulfilled  my  intention  to  the  extent  of  my  engagement. 

The  deeper,  sterner,  and  more  tragical  design  to  be  found  in  the  crimes 
that  form  the  staple  of  the  narrative,  I  did  not  detail  in  my  preface,  partly 
because  I  tiusted  it  might  be  sufficiently  obvious  to  the  more  intelligent 
reader,  partly  because  it  could  not  have  been  explained  without  impertinently 
forestalling  the  plot,  and  could  not  well  have  been  understood  till  the 
volumes  were  closed,  and  the  mind  could  look  back  upon  the  whole.  I  was 
mistaken,  it  seems,  in  my  first  reason  for  silence,  and  I  have  no  longer  the 
motive  for  the  second.  Here  let  me  pause  for  a  moment,  and  endeavor  to 
remove  from  the  mind  of  the  reader  the  principal  obstacle,  I  apprehend,  in 
the  way  of  his  candid  judgment. 

Colley  Gibber  tells  us,  in  his  amusing  autobiography,  that  in  his  time  actors 
did  not  like  to  represent  the  parts  of  villains,  "  lest  in  some  sort  they  should 
be  confounded  with  the  persons  represented,"  and,  indeed,  that  the  audi- 
ence themselves  "  were  shy  of  giving  applause  to  lago,  lest  they  should  be 
looked  on  as  abettors  of  the  wickedness  in  view."  Nay,  "  the  Master  of 
the  Revels,  who  then  licensed  plays  for  the  stage,  would  strike  out  whole 
scenes,  where  a  vicious  and  immoral  character  was  introduced,  however  vis- 
ibly it  were  shown  that  it  was  to  be  afterwards  punished  or  reformed." 
Once,  much  to  poor  Colley  s  dismay,  this  wise  Master  of  the  Revels  struck 
out  the  whole  of  the  first  act  of  Richard  III.,  "without  leaving  a  line  of 
it."  In  vain  was  the  prayer,  "  for  a  speech  or  two,  that  the  other  four  acts 
might  limp  on  with  a  little  less  absurdity."  The  Master  of  the  Revels  was 
obdurate,  "and  so  the  play  was  positively  acted  for  some  years  without  the 
first  act  at  all  !" 

Now  something,  perhaps,  of  this  prejudice  still  exists  in  the  public  ;  when 
the  author  has  presented  some  character  of  villany  to  their  eyes,  perhaps 
they  are  still  shy  of  their  applause,  "  lest  they  be  looked  upon  as  abettors 
of  the  wickedness  described."  Nay,  perhaps  the  more  lifelike  and  truthful 
the  villany,  the  greater  the  dread  of  being  entrapped  into  owning  the  faith- 
ful colors  of  the  author,  and  the  easier,  by  some  artful  foe  in  the  house, 
they  may  be  led  into  venting  on  the  writer  some  part  of  the  resentment 
which  he  designedly  raised  against  his  creations.  This  is  like  beheading  Dr. 
Guillotine  by  the  very  machine  he  intended,  out  of  the  least  truculent  mo- 
tives, for  the  more  artistic  decapitation  of  felons.  I  must  fntreat,  however, 
the  reader  to  lay  aside  that  prejudice  which,  however  amiable,  is  certainly 
unjust,  and  dissociate  entirely  the  idea  of  what  is  due  to  the  author,  from 
the  sense  of  what  is  due  to  the  characters  whom  the  author  has  purposely 
submitted  to  abhorrence.  He  does  not  the  less  hate  the  crimes,  because  he 
has  sought,  in  presenting,  to  deduce  from  them  what  warnings  they  may  con- 
vey :  and  he  is  abcut  now  more  clearly  to  explain  what  moral,  perhaps  not 
unprofitable,  may  come,  clear  and  fair,  from  the  guilt  it  has  shocked  the 
good  to  behold, 


A    WORD    TO    THE    PUBLIC.  40$ 

When  the  chief  materials  for  the  gloomier  part  of  this  tale  were  submitted 
to  me,  in  the  lives,  writings,  and  correspondence  of  the  two  persons  repre- 
sented under  the  names  of  Lucretia  and  Varney,  that  which  made  upon  me 
the  deepest  and  most  startling  impression  was  the  degree  of  intellectual  cul- 
tivation which  accompanied  and  heightened  their  ineffable  guilt.  We  are  so 
accustomed  to  consider  crime  the  hideous  offspring  of  ignorance,  that  when 
we  find  it  accompanied  by  much  literary  instruction,  it  startles  the  wonder  of 
the  indifferent,  and  rouses  the  inquiry  of  those  who  love  to  explore  the 
workings  of  the  human  mind. 

The  person  whose  guilt  is  certainly  not  exaggerated  in  Varney,  was  an 
artist,  a  musician,  a  critic,  and  a  writer  of  liveliness  and  versatility.  In  his 
correspondence,  he  appears  to  have  skimmed  the  surface  of  a  large  and  va- 
rious reading — speaks  familiarly  of  Kant,  and  hints  at  a  translation  of  Schel- 
ling.  In  the  correspondence  of  the  original  from  whom  is  drawn  the 
Lucretia  of  the  fiction,  are  apparent  a  cultivation  more  elaborate,  and  fac- 
ulties more  formidable.  These  were  facts  not  to  begot  over.  Some  lesson, 
like  all  facts,  they  must  convey.  And  I  searched  for  that  lesson  as  a  physi- 
cian may  watch  some  fearful  disease,  so  rare  indeed  in  itself,  that  his 
deductions  might  never  be  applied  to  one  precisely  similar,  but  which,  if 
comprehended  and  detailed,  might  add  to  the  general  stores  of  pathology, 
and  unravel  some  of  the  more  mysterious  complications  of  the  human 
frame.  It  is  even  painful  to  believe  in  the  union  of  mental  cultivation  with 
cruel  propensities  or  moral  depravity  ;  still,  the  fact  of  such  a  union  rises 
out  from  every  page  in  fhe  varying  chronicles  of  history.  Sometimes  the 
most  ruthless  exterminator  is  found  in  one  who  has  armed  himself  against 
his  kind,  with  all  the  learning  of  his  age  ;  and  the  accomplishments  of  a 
woman  have  been  interwoven  with  the  ferocities  of  a  savage.  The  most 
sanguinary  tyrant  of  ancient  Greece  so  cultivated  the  reasoning  faculties  he 
perverted,  as  to  induce  the  popular  error  to  class  him  amongst  the  sages  : 
Nero  had  stored  his  cruel  and  sensual  mind  with  the  very  accomplishments 
supposed  most  to  humanize  and  soften  ;  everything  that  his  time  could  teach 
him,  refined  into  system  the  atrocities  of  Caesar  Borgia  ;  Tiptoft,  Earl  of 
Worcester,  surpassed  the  most  ruthless  in  an  age  of  barbarity  ;  yet  "  with 
his  head,"  say  the  chroniclers,  "fell  half  the  scholarship  of  England"; 
Richard  the  Third  brought  to  the  fierce,  unlettered  struggles  of  his  day  the 
arts  of  Italy  and  the  learning  of  Utrecht.  Happily,  the  moral  to  be  drawn 
from  these  colossal  criminals  is,  the  utter  failure  of  the  very  intellect  so  per- 
verted and  misused.  And  as,  whatever  our  inclination  to  the  contrary,  we 
cannot  deny  that  in  private  individuals  the  same  discordant  and  dismal 
union  of  cultivated  intellect  and  corrupted  conscience  does  sometimes, 
though  rarely,  exist,  let  us  deduce  from  biography  and  fiction  the  same  salu- 
tary truth  that  consoles  us  in  history.  History  makes  clear  the  fact  and 
loud  the  warning.  Is  it  wrong  for  fiction,  that  history  of  the  inner  heart,  to 
do  the  same  ?  To  show  the  nothingness  and  impotence  of  intellect,  even  in 
the  attainment  of  its  own  intellectual  aims,  when  it  once  admits  crime  as  its 
agency  ;  to  show  how  useless,  nay,  pernicious,  to  the  guilty  possessor  is  the 
very  mental  power  he  thus  desecrates  and  perverts  ;  to  show  that  goodness 
and  genial  affection  are  essential  to  the  triumph  and  fruitfulness  of  all  that 
mind  may  plot  for,  and  force  would  command — for  these  lessons,  it  might  be 
as  permissible  to  dive  into  the  guilt  of  Lucretia  as  into  that  of  the  Prince  of 
Valentinois,  and  expose  in  the  humbler  villain  of  our  own  day  the  same  at- 
tributes of  chitracter,  the  same  alliance  of  the  sensual  and  the  cruel,  the 
effeminate  and  unsparing,  which  may  startle  us  in  the  imperial  poisoner  and 
parricide  of  old.  It  is  only  "  the  property-man  "  of  the  stage  that  sees 


406  A   WORD    TO    THE    PUBLIC. 

grandeur  but  in  the  crown  or  the  toga.  Strip  off  the  externals.  We  have 
a  right  to  compare  men  with  men. 

1  wished,  then,  to  show  the  fate  of  intelligence  abused  to  the  ends  of 
guilt.  Somewhat  of  this  had  already  been  shadowed  out,  as  I  have  said,  in 
the  tale  of  "  Eugene  Aram."  I  sought  now  to  follow  the  inquiry  it  sug- 
gested into  wider  tracks,  and  into  yet  more  comprehensive  results.  With 
two  out  of  the  three  great  divisions  of  human  intelligence,  facts  supplied 
me  ;  I  drew  from  invention  for  the  third. 

In  Dalibard,  the  intention  was  to  portray  the  wary,  calculating,  and 
laborious  intellect,  which,  rightly  directed,  leads  to  science  ;  in  Varney,  the 
versatile,  lively,  impressionable  fancy,  which,  purified  and  guided,  may  con- 
duct to  art  ;  in  Lucretia,  the  energy  and  active  will,  which,  nobly  stimulated 
and  trained,  may  lead  to  eminence  and  success  in  the  outward  concerns  of  life. 

All  these  intellects  had  but  to  be  honest  to  succeed.  Each  of  these  intel- 
lects divorces  itself  early  from  all  interests  but  its  own.  Each  works  and 
plo's  solely  for  objects  identified  with  itself.  Each  admits  crime  for  its 
agency  ;  and  from  that  moment  all  three,  so  essentially  disiinct,  are  merged 
in  one  common  infamy  and  degradation — from  that  moment,  every  effort  of 
the  intellect  itself  becomes  a  failure  ;  and  time  and  justice,  and  the  truth  of 
things,  crush  them  beneath  the  Alps  they  themselves  have  created.  In  the 
minutiae  of  treatment,  all  ground  for  such  mischief,  as  the  most  cautious 
might  apprehend,  in  instructing  depravity  (if  depravity  such  a  book  should 
ever  reach)  as  to  the  materials  at  its  command,  has  been  so  studiously 
avoided,  that  the  reader  will  perceive  the  uniform  care  with  which  the  pos- 
sible attainment  of  those  materials  has  been  placed  out  of  the  reach  of  the 
guilty  ;  the  temporary  success  that  attends  the  poisons  employed  by  the 
murderers  is  made  to  depend  solely  on  their  selection  of  no  drug  to  be  pro- 
cured by  commonplace  villany — in  the  secrets  of  chemical  compounds, 
which  at  no  shop  could  be  purchased,  of  which  no  hint  is  conveyed,  except 
that  only  by  chemistry,  the  most  erudite  and  skilful,  they  can  possibly  be 
combined.  Rather  than  incur,  however  innocently,  the  possibility  of  sup- 
plying to  one  "  morbid  idiosyncrasy  "  the  agencies  at  the  service  of  these 
modern  Borgias,  I  have  willingly  invited  the  much  more  plausible  accusation 
of  far-fetched  and  impracticable  devices,  if  ever  existing,  wholly  lost  to  the 
invention,  wholly  out  of  the  command,  of  guilt  in  the  age  in  which  we  live. 

I  said  in  my  preface  that  the  originals  from  whom  I  had  drawn  had  as 
little  as  imagination  can  conceive  to  redeem  their  guilt.  And  this,  I  trust, 
I  have  sternly  kept  in  view.  I  have  never  once  held  them  up  to  compas- 
sion. I  have  left  them  that  degree  of  ability  which  was  justified  by  facts  ; 
not  elevated  into  the  genius,  with  which,  as  in  history,  we  find  such  crimi- 
nality is  not  accompanied.  It  has  been  even  reproached  to  me,  that  I  have 
not  given  them  genius,  and  that  all  their  cunning,  instruction,  or  audacity 
avails  them  not  for  worldly  success.  Why,  that  was  precisely  one  truth 
that  I  aimed  at !  The  Borgias  and  the  Richards  fall  short  of  genius,  but 
have  ability  sufficient  to  have  won  them  some  distinction  in  good,  and  power- 
ful only  for  destruction  when  applied  to  evil.  I  have  never  suffered  ability 
so  debased  to  pass  into  the  command  of  admiration  ;  I  have  shown  how  im- 
potent it  was  to  lessen  one  atom  of  our  detestation,  though  sufficient  (if  such 
art  be  in  the  writer)  to  accompany  detestation  with  terror.  Pressed  into  the 
service  of  Death,  Mind  itself  grows  grim  and  hateful  as  the  king  that  it 
serves. 

"  Black  it  stands  as  Night, 
Fierce  as  ten  furies,  terrible  as  heH, 
And  shakes  a  deadly  dart  1  " 


A    WORD     TO     THE    PUBLIC.  407 

These  Children  of  Night,  by  the  paths  they  themselves  have  chosen,  are 
conducted  to  catastrophes,  which,  while  punishing  them  the  most  in  the  sin 
each  had  most  favored,  was  that  which  each  (could  the  soul  have  foreseen 
it)  would  have  regarded  as  the  most  fearful  and  appalling.  Dalibard,  the 
coward  and  the  calculator,  shrinking  from  all  physical  danger,  and  using 
his  holiest  relationships  but  as  tools  to  his  purpose,  is  betrayed  at  the 
hearth  he  has  desecrated,  and  butchered  by  the  dull  ruffian  he  had  duped. 
Varney,  who  had  prostituted  the  perfection  of  his  physical  senses  to  their 
vilest  gratifications,  luxurious  amidst  his  infamy,  effeminate  in  despite  of  his 
animal  audacity,  is  sentenced  to  the  coarsest  of  hardships,  the  vilest  of 
labor,  chained  to  the  most  loathsome  of  malefactors,  doomed  to  all  that  the 
senses,  most  pampered,  would  shudder  from  the  most,  all  that  the  fancy,  so 
perverted,  could  body  forth  of  horror  and  despair.  Lucretia,  who  had  made 
on  earth  no  god  but  the  intellect,  is  cursed  in  the  intellect — smitten  down 
below  the  brutes,  but  with  the  consciousness  of  the  mortal — retaining, 
amidst  the  ruins  of  all  the  past,  only  the  image  of  her  crime,  standing  face 
to  face  with  it,  as  a  visible  thing.  Surely  these  punishments  are  as  appall' 
ing  and  as  appropriate  to  the  guilt  as  poelic  justice  can  command  I  And 
beside  them  the  gibbet  is  mercy  and  reprieve. 

The  delineation,  then,  of  these  three  arch  criminals,  was  not  the  indul- 
gence of  any  idle  or  morbid  affection  for  the  contemplation  of  guilt  in  itself, 
it  was  but  undertaken  for  an  honest  and  ?erious  purpose.  And  a  thoughtful 
reader  will  perceive  that  even  the  more  subordinate  images  of  evil  introduced 
were  in  accordance  with  one  earnest  and  elaborate  design.  The  dull  and 
villanous  brutality  of  the  grave-stealer,  for  instance,  forms  no  superfluous 
figure  on  the  gloomy  canvas,  nor,  in  chaining  that  sordid  ruffian  to  the  more 
pampered  miscreant,  is  the  idea  of  befitting  punishment  to  the  last,  alone  en- 
forced. But  in  confounding  in  one  lowest  abyss  of  human  degradation,  the 
man  in  whom  no  nobler  faculty  has  ever  been  awakened,  ai:d  the  man  to 
whom  all  faculties  sufficing  for  the  perception  of  good  have  been  given,  and 
by  whom  they  have  been  voluntarily  perverted  to  odious  and  execrable  ends, 
it  was  sought  to  convey  a  truth,  suggestive  ef  no  unprofitable  reflections. 

That  wise  man,  Dr.  Slop,  in  discussing  Yorick's  Sermon,  contends  that  the 
Roman  Catholic  Sermons  "  have  greatly  the  advantage,  that  they  never  in- 
troduce any  character  below  a  patriarch,  or  a  patriarch's  wife,  or  a  martyr,  or 
a  saint.  'There  are  some  very  bad  characters  in  this,  however,' said  my  fa- 
ther, '  and  I  do  not  think  the  sermon  is  a  jot  the  worse  for  'em.'" 

Perhaps  Mr.  Shandy  in  this  was  a  better  judge  than  Dr.  Slop. 

I  conlend,  then,  and  I  think  that  I  have  proved,  that  the  design  of  this 
book  of  the  "  Children  of  Night "  was  conformable  to  the  laws  of  fiction  and 
the  truths  of  history  ;  that  the  moral  it  enforces  is  serious  and  impressive  ; 
not  the  less  for  the  pain  it  bequeaths  ;  that  it  can  but  deepen  the  horror  of 
guilt,  and  the  dread  of  its  consequences  ;  that  it  can  but  preach  wholesome 
lessons  to  the  intellect,  and  awaken  lively  self-examination  in  the  heart  ;  and 
that  there  is  not  a  single  attempt  to  create  for  the  criminals  any  interest  save 
that  of  terror  and  suspense  in  their  deeds,*  or  to  pervert  for  one  instant  the 
channels  of  sympathy  from  their  legitimate  source. 

I  have  been  told,  indeed,  that,  though  these  dark  social  phenomena  may 
exist,  they  are  too  peculiar,  too  rnre,  for  moral  or  artisiical  treatment.  1'er- 
haps,  such  critics  would  never  have  made  the  charge  had  they  been  aware  of 

*  By  a  strange  inconsistency,  the  very  parties  that  reproached  me  for  blending  some  re- 
deeming good  qualities  with  tne  offences  of  Paul  Clifford  and  the  crime  of  Kugcne  Aram, 
reproach  me  for  the  opposite  fault  of  leaving  the  wickedness  of  Varney  and  Lucretia  utterly 
unredeemed. 


408  A    WORD    TO    THE   PUBLIC. 

the  compliment  it  implies.  Every  man,  really  a  critic  in  art,  knows  that  rare 
truths  are  more  important  than-freqaent  ones.  "The  teaching  of  Nature," 
says  one  who  has  thoroughly  mastered  the  subject  he  treats  of,  "  is  as  varied 
and  infinite  as  it  is  constant,  and  the  duty  of  the  painter  is  to  watch  for  every 
one  of  her  lessons,  and  to  give  (for  human  life  can  admit  of  nothing  more) 
those  in  which  she  has  manifested  each  of  her  principles  in  the  most  striking 
and  peculiar  way.  The  rarer  his  phenomena,  the  more  valuable  his  works 
will  be."  Not,  indeed,  that  we  must  delineate  the  rare  alone.  "Both  the 
frequent  and  the  rare  are  parts  of  the  same  great  system  ;  to  give  either  ex- 
clusively is  imperfect  truth."  If  these  "Children  of  Night"  are  happily 
rare  deviations  from  the  order  established  below,  they  do  not  occupy  the 
whole  of  my  canvas,  and  they  are  surrounded  with  images  more  bright  and,  I 
believe,  more  frequent.  Is  there  nothing  innocent  in  Helen  ?  Nothing 
frank  and  pure  in  the  youth  of  Percy?  Nothing  honest  and  upright  in  John 
Ardworth?  Nothing  benevolent  in  Fielden  ?  Nothing  amiable  and  genial 
in  Sir  Miles  St.  John  ?  And  as  the  general  disposition  and  tendencies  of  an 
author  are  not  to  be  judged  by  one  work  alone,  so  I  may  venture  to  invite 
those  who  have  really  read  me,  to  add  to  the  contrast  of  the  gloom  and  guilt 
depicted  in  "  Lucretia,"  whatever  of  gentler  fancies  they  may  rerm-mber  in 
the"  Pilgrims  of  the  Rhine,"  of  attempts  to  symbolize  the  beautv  of  Art  in 
the  romance  of  "  Zanoni,"  or  to  embody  the  steadfast  virtue  of  practical  life 
in  the  Mordaunt  of  "  The  Disowned."  And  if  they  will  permit  their  thoughts 
to  wander  for  a  moment  through  the  whole  range  of  my  writings,  they  will 
own  at  least  that,  whatever  their  faults,  they  are  not  to  be  accused  of  same- 
ness in  the  characters,  nor  of  monotony  in  treatment. 

"  Lucretia  "  I  confess  to  be  a  painful  book  ;  all  delineation  of  fearful  crime 
and  the  ruin  it  entails  must  necessarily  be  so.  If,  in  its  treatmen:,  I  have 
overstepped  the  true  limits  of  terror,  that  may  be  an  error  in  art,  bui  not  one 
(be  it  remembered  and  distinguished)  in  moral  tendency  and  design.* 

There  is  this  distinction  between  the  old  tragedy  and  the  new.  With  the 
Greek,  Fate  was  the  main  instrument  of  woe  and  crime  ;  so  with  the  Greek, 
there  was  little  need  of  mental  analysis  ;  little  need  to  show  from  what  errors 
of  his  own  man  suffered  and  sinned.  Fate  stalked  across  his  way  or  stood 
upon  his  hearth — his  fell  and  irresistible  foe.  An  oracle  declared  he  should 
murder,  a  god  led  his  steps  to  his  doom.  But,  with  us,  guilt  or  woe  has  its 
source  in  ourselves.  Our  conscience  is  our  oracle,  our  deeds  shape  our  fate. 
And  though,  in  a  few  rare  instances,  modern  writers  have  still  had  recourse 
to  the  iron  deity  of  old,  it  is  obvious  that  unless  the  instrumentality  of  a 
power  which  we  cannot  influence  and  control  be  most  sparingly  and  cautiously 
employed,  we  should  seem  to  sanction  the  dangerous  principle  that  we  are 
the  passive  and  unconscious  tools,  not  the  active  and  reasoning" contrivers,  of 
the  evil  that  conducts  us  to  the  abyss.  Hence  arises  the  imperious  necessity, 
for  those  who  resott  to  the  sources  of  tragedy,  and  trace  from  them  the  chan- 
nels of  woe  or  guilt,  to  search  narrowly  and  patiently  (often,  it  may  be, 
with  distaste  to  themselves)  into  all  that  is  dark  and  hidden  in  the  mechan- 
ism of  the  mind  for  the  causes  of  evil,  and  the  links  between  the  thought 
and  the  sin.  And  thus  in  proportion  to  the  crime  they  depict,  and  the  de- 
struction it  effects,  must  be  the  gloom  of  the  impression  they  create,  and  tlic 
degree  of  pain  tiny  inflict.  If,  in  the  narrative  of  these  "  Children  of 
NightV"-— if,  as  sorrie*Hss;KrT7  "  its  horror  is  burlesque,"  and  its  treatment 
"excites  rather  ridicule  than  awe" — if,  as  I  am  assured  by  others,  it  is 

*  In  the  present  edition  it  will  be  seen  that  the  author  has  endeavored,  by  an  alteration 
in  the  catastrophe,  to  lighten  the  pain  which  the  earlier  cast  of  the  work  had  produced. 


A    WORD    TO     THE    PUBLIC.  409 

"  dulness  upon  dulness,"  "  nothing  graphic  in  the  pictures,"  "  nothing  strik- 
ing in  the  incidents," — then,  though  its  moral  cannot  be  pernicious,  I  have 
certainly  failed  to  render  it  instructive.  But  if  it  bequeaths  (as  the  facts  on 
which  it  is  founded  should  enable  it  to  do)  the  effect  of  tragedy  thoroughly 
in  earnest  ;  a  sensation  of  tenor  that  oppresses  the  more  from  the  conviction 
that  reality  lies  beneath  the  fiction  ;  a  relief  in  the  heartfelt  detestation  of  the 
crime  from  which  the  terror,  proceeds;  a  diead  of  "the  destructive  power" 
which  is  the  essence  of  the  hateful  combination  between  intellect  and  guilt, 
and  a  desire  to  rush  for  escape  to  the  cheerful  atmosphere  of  the  good — then 
does  this  book  come,  at  least,  within  the  alloted  limits  of  the  art  that  is  built 
upon  terror,  and  sanctions  its  connection  with  pain  and  distress,*  and  then 
does  it  attain  to  those  moral  effects  which  are  produced  by  the  means  of  the 
passions.  —-^ 

The  moral  conveyed  in  all  works  of  the  imagination  is  in  part  distinct  and  / 
immediate,  in  part  also  it  is  untraceable,  distant,  and  indirect.    And  this  lat-  ! 
ter  part  is  perhaps  the  most  really  valuable  and  efficient.     Ask  any  thought- 
ful and  educated  man  what  works  have  produced  the  most  marked  and  rec- 
ognized influence  on  his  conduct,  and  I  believe  he  will  never  name  a  fiction 
or  a  poem.     Next,  and  unspeakably  subordinate,  to  the  more  sacred  moni- 
tors whose   counsel   he  reverently  obeys,  he  will  tell  us,  perhaps,  of  some 
homely  treatise,  or  some  artless  biography.     But  ask  that  mm  to  dissociate 
from  the  general  influences  on  his  conduct  whatever  he  may  have  learned    ' 
from   the  pages  of  poetry  and  fiction,  and  he  will  doubtless  tell  you  it  is  im- 
possible.     He  will  acknowledge  how  much,  yet  how  insensibly,  they  have 
strengthened  his  moral  impressions  ;  how  much  they  have   suggested  reflec- 
tions that  brighten  his  perceptions  of  truths  ;  how  much  they  have  added  to 
that  general  knowledge  of  the  heart  which  has  set  emotion  on  its  guard,  and 
animated  into  generous  passion  his  love  for  the  noble  and  the  good,  his  scorn 
for  the   sordid  and  the  evil.     And  this  it  is,  I  presume,  that  some  writer  in-  | 
tended  to  express  when  he  finely  asked,  "  Who  amongst  us  now  living  can 
tell  what  he  would  have  been  if  Shakspeare  had  never  existed  ?  " 

None  of  my  readers  will  ever,  I  know,  have  to  resist  one  temptation  to  a 
villany,  a  millionth  part  so  hateful  as  that  described  in  "  Lucretia  "  as  a 
monstrous  phenomenon.  But  in  the  struggles  of  life,  the  minor  seductions 
of  evil  are  often  repelled  by  the  lively  horror  derived  from  the  doom  which 
poet  or  tale-teller  has  assigned  to  concessions  to  the  greater.  If  this  were 
not  so,  the  gigantic  and  unfamiliar  crimes  depicted  on  the  heroic  s'age,  would 
be  but  idle  exaggerations.  Who  amongst  the  audience  that  listen  to  "  Mac- 
beth "  will  have  to  wr.de  through  blood  to  a  throne,  yet  who  may  not  have 
some  selfish  object  his  ambition  would  promote,  and  be  tempted  by  the  mean- 
er "  juggles  of  the  fiend  "  ?  In  the  picture  of  a  crime  dwells  the  warning  to 
an  error.  Divers  and  specious  are  the  allurements  to  attain  to  ends  coveted 
by  the  intellect,  through  means  more  or  less  disapproved  by  the  conscience  : 
and  not  unsalutary  may  be  the  true  lesson  to  be  derived  from  "  Lucretia"  if 
the  impressions  it  bequeaths,  though  vigue  and  unanalyzed,  serve  to  quicken 

*  In  quoting  the  following  passage,  it  is  not  with  the  presumption  of  advancing  any  claim 
to  the  high  attainment  of  which  mention  is  made,  but  simply  to  show  that,  in  the  Judg- 
ment of  a  very  eminent  critic,  art  finds  in  t/istress  one  ingredient  of  the  sublime  ;  and  though 
of  course,  an  effect  in  not  sublime  because  it  is  distressing,  yet  at  least  it  is  not  an  offence 
to  art  that  the  sensation  of  distress  is  occasioned.  Though  a  writer  may  make  no  pretence 
to  the  sublime,  he  may  still  apply  for  such  effects  as  his  degrees  of  power  permits  him  to 
produce  to  whatever  are  suggested  as  its  sources.  "  Of  ftr/ing;  little  more  can  be  said, 
than  that  the  idea  of  bodily  pain  hi  all  the  modes  and  degrees  of  labor,  pain,  anguish  tor- 
ment, is  productive  of  the  sublime,  and  nothing  else  in  this  sense  can  produce  it."  "  Its 
strongest  emotion  (that  of  the  sublimo)  is  an  emotion  of  distress,  and  no  pleasure  from  a 
positive  cause  belongs  to  it," — DCKKE  ('«  tite  Sublime  a n<(  Beautiful,  part  ii.  Sect.  aa. 


410  A    WORD     TO     THE    PUBLIC. 

the  instantaneous  conviction  that  all  which  defiles  the  conscience  defeats  and 
defrauds  the  intellect. 

"  The  first  step  passed,  compels  us  on  to  more. 
And  guilt  proves  fate,  which  was  but  choice  before." 

A  task  reluctantly  undertaken  is  now  fulfilled.  I  have  shown  that  it  is 
uncharitable  and  rash  to  decide  in  haste  against  the  mornl  purposes  of  writ- 
ers who  have  no  object  to  deprave  ;  I  have  shown  the  laws  and  examples 
which  render  justifiable  in  ficiion  the  delineations  of  crime  ;  I  have  exposed 
the  falsity  of  the  charge  so  reiterated  against  myst  If,  that  habitually,  and  hy 
preference,  I  have  made  criminals  my  heroes  ;  I  have  shown  that,  out  of 
sixteen  fictions,  to  three  only  can  this  charge  be  applied.  I  have,  I  trust, 
made  it  manifest,  that  each  of  these  three  will  bear  the  test  of  the  strictest 
reference  to  the  due  restiictions  to  be  placed  upon  their  treatment  and  de- 
sign ;  that  no  sophistry  has  been  employed  to  vindicate  the  crime  ;  that  the 
crime  has  not  been  of  that  nature  in  which  the  narrative  needs,  or  has  found, 
inflammatory  appeals  to  the  more  tempting  passions — obtruding  the  presen- 
tation of  licentious  images,  and  clothing  itself  in  a  garb  which  rather  allures 
than  revolts  ;  and,  finally,  I  trust  I  have  made  it  clear  to  the  reader,  that 
such  stern  and  sombre  subjects  have  not  been  undertaken  without  the  befit- 
ting gravity  of  thoughtful  and  earnest  purpose. 

If  I  have  not  entered  at  length  into  the  subjects  of  my  other  works,  it  is 
because  such  self-criticism  would  have  been  unpardonable,  unless  for  the 
imperative  necessities  of  self-defence — each  singly  considered,  their  moral 
tendencies  and  objects  have  been  tacitly  admitted,  or  only  vaguely  assailed  ; 
and  the  reader  will  acknowledge,  that  in  mainly  confining  myself  to  those 
works  in  which  criminals  have  been  made  the  predominant  characters,  I 
have  fairly  and  honestly  met  the  gravamen  of  the  charge  that  has  been  urged 
against  me.  The  rest  of  my  writings,  therefore,  I  confidently  leave  to  the 
recollections  of  the  general  reader  ;  and  though,  amongst  works  so  numer- 
ous, commenced  at  so  early  an  age,  and  comprehending  delineations  of  life, 
with  its  manners  and  its  passions,  so  widely  various,  there  may  occur,  un- 
avoidably, some  errors  of  judgment,  some  passages  too  lightly  considered 
(and  what  writer  could  bear  a  malignant  research  through  more  than  forty 
volumes,  made  with  a  design  of  interpreting  every  sentence  to  the  worst  ?), 
yet  I  am  convinced  that  the  result  of  my  candid  survey  would  establish  the 
fact,  that  all  those  works  were  conceived  with  the  heartfelt  desire  to  minis- 
ter, however  humbly,  to  truth  and  good,  and  executed  with  a  reverent  care 
to  unsettle  no  man's  mind  as  to  the  clear  principles  of  religion,  or  the  broad 
distinctions  which  the  conscience  has  established  between  what  we  should 
aspire  to,  and  what  we  should  avoid. 

This  vindication,  which,  I  think  has  been  conducted  in  that  fair  spirit  of 
dispassionate  argumtnt  which  I  prescribed  to  myself  at  the  commencement, 
shall  be  sent  to  those  whose  charges,  less  temperately  made,  have  called  it 
forth.  It  is  at  their  option  to  treat  it  with  silence,  or,  if  it  so  please  them, 
in  the  same  tone,  and  with  recourse  to  the  same  arts,  by  which  they  have 
previously  sought  to  pervert  my  meaning,  and  degrade  my  name  ;  or  why 
should  I  think  so  ill,  even  of  enemies,  as  not  to  hope  that  some  amongst 
them,  at  least,  while  retaining  fairly  their  opinion  of  the  literary  demerits 
of  my  writings,  may  retract  what  alone  I  have  the  right  to  complain  of,  viz., 
heedless  and  unconsidered  misstatements  as  to  their  honest  tendency  and 
design  ?  Be  'his  as  it  may,  though  the  wrong  that  has  been  done  me  may 
not,  and  cannot,  be  readily  and  lightly  repaired  ;  though  I  am  aware  that 
many  who  never  read  my  works  have  yet  read,  and  may  be  long  impressed 


A    WORD     TO     THE    PUBLIC.  411 

by,  the  attacks  of  their  assailants  ;  that  many  more,  who  have  read  both 
the  works  and  the  attacks,  will  never  read  this  explanation  of  the  one  and 
this  reply  to  the  other — nay,  even  though  these  pages,  like  the  works  that 
preceded  them,  may  he  garbled  and  distorted  from  their  meaning — yet  I  am 
immovably  persuaded  that,  from  few  to  more,  from  the  segment  to  the  circle, 
the  main  truths  I  have  stated  will  gradually  but  surely  penetrate  and  ex- 
tend ;  and  that,  whatever  literary  faults  and  blemishes  in  my  writings  may 
be  justly  condemned,  soon  or  late,  the  author  will  be  held  to  have  given  an 
unanswerable  vindication  of  the  legitimate  selection  of  his  materials,  and  his 
conscientious  sense  of  his  more  serious  responsibilities. 


THE    END. 


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